168 Hours
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Bucky Barnes has been on the run for nine months. One week will change everything. (Fifth installment in The Search for Bucky Barnes series.) Rated T.
1. Chapter 1

**168 Hours**

**Chapter 1**

_Naval Air Station Sigonella_

_Sicily, Italy_

_0800 Hours, Local Time_

Mt. Etna was as impressive a sight in 2015 as it had been in 1943. Steve let his eyes roam over the vista for a few moments before returning to his sketch pad. He almost had the eastern slopes right...

Focusing on his drawing was more than an attempt to pass the time. It helped him keep his mind off of nine and a half months of failure. He, Sam, and Rhodey had scoured North America, rooting out HYDRA cells and looking for Bucky, and while they'd been surprisingly successful at the first, they'd utterly failed at the second. Bucky was nowhere to be found, and he apparently wanted to keep it that way.

Steve tried not to feel hurt, tried to put himself in Barnes' shoes, but he kept coming back to feeling rejected. That wasn't fair to Bucky, he knew. It was hopelessly unrealistic, given what he knew his best friend had been through. He truly had no way of knowing how much of Bucky was left inside the shell of the Winter Soldier. He wanted to think there were still pieces he could help pick up, that something salvageable was left. Sam's encounter in Missouri, and Natasha's in Manhattan seemed promising, in that regard.

He'd been angry when she'd first told him that Bucky had been so close and she'd let him go without even calling Steve down from the tower, but she had put him in his place quickly enough. She could no more have kept Bucky from leaving than Sam could have in Missouri. And enough people had forced Bucky to do things over the years. They didn't need to start. Steve couldn't argue with that.

Two smoking craters had appeared in Arizona a few days later, but if it had been Barnes, there was no evidence left behind. Not that Steve had expected any. Sam had gone out to Phoenix right after New Year's to join Agent Howard's team, trying to piece together exactly _what_ had been blown off the map, but it was a slow process.

Pepper had insisted that Steve spend the holidays in New York, and with Bucky's trail cold, he'd agreed. Unfortunately, he hadn't felt much in the spirit of things. He'd spent most of Tony's huge Christmas bash by the bar with Clint and Bruce, watching Darcy Lewis teach Thor about human dancing...and generally feeling sorry for himself, which he hated.

The life he'd struggled to rebuild for himself over the past three years had been turned completely on its head. S.H.I.E.L.D. ended up being something that stood against everything he believed in; his superiors were liars: some of them conspirators, murderers, and worse. He and Natasha had almost been hunted down and killed by the very team they'd worked beside for twenty months. The evil cult he thought he'd died destroying turned out to be alive and well and more widespread than ever, and Bucky—

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. It always came back around to Bucky.

"Captain Rogers?"

Startled out of his dark reverie, Steve looked up to find a U.S. Navy petty officer standing at attention, saluting him smartly. He flipped the sketch pad closed, stood and returned the young man's salute.

"Captain, the aircraft is ready to go. If you'll follow me, sir?"

Grabbing his duffel, Steve let the petty officer lead him out of the waiting area and through the main terminal, out onto the tarmac. The two-toned gray C-2A Greyhound that awaited him was quite a bit larger than the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjets he'd flown aboard so many times, with a fat fuselage topped by a broad wing, and flanked by two huge turboprop engines. The aft loading ramp was lowered for boarding, its red-painted edges creating the impression that Steve was about to be swallowed by a huge metal whale.

Two naval aviators—a male pilot and a female crew chief—met them at the ramp. Both saluted. Steve returned it, then accepted the pilot's handshake.

"Captain Rogers, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Lieutenant, J.G. McConnell, this is Chief Ramirez. She'll be running you through the safety briefing and getting you settled in back."

"Thank you," Steve replied.

"I bet you never had machines like _this_ back in the day, eh, Captain?" the pilot asked, patting the rear fuselage of the plane with obvious affection. "I guess all this is pretty mind-blowing, huh?"

_Oh, boy_, Steve thought to himself. That tone of voice. He'd encountered many people since being defrosted who assumed that because he was from the '40s, he was a caveman. _Yes, we had planes, and refrigerators and even electric lights, thank you very much_. He put on his most sincere I'm-sure-you're-right smile and nodded toward the Greyhound. "Yeah...she's somethin' else."

Apparently placated, secure in his belief that the caveman was harmless—and yes, maybe Steve was just in a bad mood, but the pilot's attitude was already grating on his nerves—the pilot ran down the flight plan. About four hours to Cyprus, maybe less depending on the winds, then refuel and four more hours to the carrier, which was somewhere in the Red Sea as they spoke. McConnell excused himself to finish his pre-flight checks, leaving Steve with Chief Ramirez, who was watching Steve with a barely suppressed grin. She nodded toward the pilot once he was out of earshot.

"_Harvard_," she said, as though it explained everything. "You're not the only one he assumes is stupid, trust me."

Steve laughed as he followed Ramirez up the ramp into the passenger compartment. As she led him to the seats, he noticed another passenger, a blonde woman in Army fatigues, wearing Lieutenant's bars on her collar. She adjusted her eyeglasses and smiled as Ramirez got him settled in across the narrow aisle from her. "Lieutenant Roman, Army Intelligence. Hope you don't mind me hitching a ride, since we're going the same direction."

Steve politely smiled and nodded to her as he sat. Chief Ramirez quickly ran through a safety briefing, then helped him stow his bag under the seat next to him. When that was done, she glanced sheepishly toward the cockpit, then back at Rogers. "Captain...may I— I just wanted to say _thank you_, sir."

Steve frowned. "For what?"

"I'm third generation Navy, sir. My grandfather was a boatswain on the battleship _Texas _in 1944. He told us a story about D-Day, they were heading in to bombard the coast for the invasion, and the weather was terrible that morning before dawn. He had to go up on deck and he slipped...you jumped into the water and brought him back to the ship."

Steve grinned. "Oh, wow...I haven't thought about that in a long time. Um...his name was...Thomas, right?"

Ramirez beamed. "Yes, sir. If you don't mind, sir, maybe you could spare a few minutes and tell me your side of that story?"

Steve laughed. "It's a long flight, I'm sure we can find a few minutes." The chief thanked him, then headed toward the front of the plane.

Steve shook his head, remembering that morning. The old _Texas_ had seemed huge back then, and had certainly been the biggest ship he'd ever been on...until Coulson had flown him out to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier seventy years later.

"Do you ever get tired of hearing how great you are?"

He sighed quietly, turning a glare on the blonde across from him. "Natasha, what are you doin' here?"

"_Nadine Roman_, actually," Romanoff replied, arching an eyebrow. "And did you seriously think you could leave New York without telling anyone and not make people worry?"

"When the Army sends out classified orders, they tend to frown on people spreading the word around. Besides, I didn't even know the destination until I was airborne."

She frowned. "And since when do you jump when the Army says—?" She broke off and looked at him sharply, lowering her voice. "Steve, is...is this the deal you made for Barnes? You _rejoined the Army?_"

"Technically, I was never out of the Army," Steve deflected. At her look, he sighed. "_Yes_. Part-time. I guess you call it _semi_-active duty."

Frankly, Steve was surprised, on multiple fronts. First, that Sam and Rhodey managed to keep it quiet around the others, and secondly that Natasha or Clint hadn't caught on earlier. He knew they were both laying low after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, but he hadn't realized how far out of the loop they'd gone.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Natasha asked, her expression switching back to the more unreadable kind she often wore to hide what she was thinking.

"I couldn't," Steve said, an edge of exasperation seeping into his tone. "Bucky's deal took months to hammer out. I didn't want word getting around about him, and, besides, 'Captain America Re-Enlists' isn't a headline I want seen all over creation right now. It wouldn't do anyone any good."

_Wouldn't do Bucky any good_. There Steve went again, circling everything back to Barnes. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Sometimes he wondered about the character—the monster—the Army's PR machine had created back during the war. Where did "Captain America" end and Steve Rogers begin? Or was there even a distinction anymore? On the one hand, it was Captain America's legendary status that had gotten him into the Pentagon and into the White House to make the deals for Bucky's safety, but on the other, knowledge that Captain America was out there hunting HYDRA and the Winter Soldier could easily get Bucky killed, if the wrong people found out about it.

Steve blinked, realizing that Natasha was speaking again.

"—and you should have asked one of us to come along."

He frowned. "My orders weren't addressed to 'Steve Rogers plus one.' Part of the deal is that I'm available for certain ops, whenever I might be needed. They called, I was needed, so I'm available."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence for a while. The plane's engines had cranked on, filling the pressurized cabin with a loud hum. He felt the plane begin to move, preparing for takeoff.

"Are you still angry with me?" Natasha asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the rear bulkhead.

He looked over at her, then huffed softly. "I was, for a while, but not anymore. You were right, you couldn't have kept him there, and if he wants to stay away that's his choice." Steve's throat tightened at the words, but he continued. "But, that doesn't mean I can't go and try to convince him otherwise."

"He's trying to protect you, in his own way," Natasha said.

"I know," Steve said, beginning to feel the sadness well up again. "He's always been an idiot." Not enjoying the feeling, he changed the subject. "How are you going to explain being here?"

Romanoff looked at him with an expression of pure innocence. "I have my _orders_." She produced an envelope, complete with official Army markings. At Steve's arched eyebrow, she smiled. "Tony and Clint are amazingly adept at forgery, as it turns out. Lieutenant Roman is an Army intelligence specialist assigned to assist Captain Rogers in his current mission...whatever that may be."

Steve chuckled. "I'm sure it has to do with the Wakanda situation. But, all Colonel Schroeder told me was to meet up with Rhodey on an aircraft carrier, and he gave me a flight plan. I'm supposed to be briefed when I get there."

Natasha grunted in acknowledgement. "Well, what do you want to do for the next nine hours?"

"You got any cards?" Steve said, smiling.

"No. You could tell me how your date with Sharon went."

Steve looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "How did you know about—"

Romanoff crossed her arms. "You have your secrets, I have mine, Steve."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_New York City_

_2:30 AM_

"_Committing American troops to defend Wakanda is a huge strategic blunder on the part of the President. We're still involved in the Middle East, the Russians are re-emerging as a serious threat, and we have our own terrorist threat here at home—_"

"_Wakanda is the only stable government in East Africa, and one of the few that are friendly with the West. King T'Challa would never have been deposed in the first place if certain players in our government hadn't aided his enemies—_"

"_Alexander Pierce is dead. Ellis can't send American troops all over the world cleaning up S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mistakes. It only weakens our—_"

"Off," Tony said with a sigh. The rerun of "The Situation Room" on the television monitor went dark. The talking heads employed by TV news seemed to be getting more obnoxious—and ignorant—every year.

"You think that's why Rhodey and Steve had to leave?" Pepper asked, leaning against his shoulder.

"Maybe," Tony shrugged, frowning into his snifter of brandy. "Probably. Romanoff will let us know. Pierce created the mess over there, so it stands to reason that means HYDRA is involved. Steve and Rhodey have had a lot of experience busting them up lately..."

"I still can't believe Steve didn't say something to us about it."

Stark huffed a laugh. "Captain Boy Scout is nothing if not patriotic. If Ellis asked to him to go over there and to keep it quiet, Rogers would." His smirk faded into a frown. "But, I dunno...he's different. Ever since this stuff with Barnes started, he's...I don't know. He's even keeping Wilson at arm's length."

"Natasha's worried about him, too," Pepper said, moving so she rested her head on his chest.

"I never said I was _worried_," Tony objected. Pepper angled her head to stare at him. He returned it, playfully daring her to correct him.

Pepper didn't press the point. "We should get some sleep. We've got a lot to do before the fundraiser Friday night."

"No, we don't," Tony said. "Because we're not _going_ to the fundraiser Friday night."

"The governor's going to be there, and if you want your Arc reactor power plant idea to see the light of day, we need to make nice with him."

"The man tried to make me cough up sixty billion dollars to clean up the city after the Chitauri invasion."

"The official estimate was over a _hundred_ and sixty billion—"

"And would be a lot more if we hadn't stopped them. He shouldn't have blamed _me_ for any of it!" Tony cried.

Pepper sighed wearily. "He was running for office. He was just pointing the finger at you to get votes."

"I didn't appreciate it."

"I'm just saying, the man's almost certainly going to be the next Vice President. The power plant project needs his support, not to mention he'll end up in charge of NASA, so there's also the space probe you and Jane want to build. We don't have to _like_ him, just play nice with him."

"We're not going."

"Yes, we are."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Montclair, New Jersey_

_3:00 AM_

James sat silently in the darkened room, awaiting the arrival of his target. It wasn't the first time he'd waited inside someone's house for them to arrive, nor was it even the first time he'd waited in a target's bedroom. Nor, sadly, was this the youngest target he'd ever been assigned.

He was, however, the noisiest target James had ambushed.

The teenager sounded like a small avalanche as he climbed the stairs of the brownstone and slipped clumsily into his bedroom. James suppressed a smile when the boy rather comically took great care in quietly closing the door once he was inside.

"Your mother must be a heavy sleeper if that's the stealthiest you can be," James said quietly from his perch between the room's two windows.

"Holy—!"The teenager spun around, slamming himself against the closed door and frantically digging a small cylinder out of his pocket. "Stay back! I—I have pepper spray!"

James calmly pulled one of his knives and held it up so the moonlight glinted off the blade. "I can put this through your eye socket before you get within range. Plus, your sprayer is empty." He could hear the _clink_ of the empty metal canister from where he sat.

Stymied, the teenager reached over slowly and clicked on the overhead light. James didn't move: he was well out of sight from any prying eyes outside where he sat on the broad window sill. James took a moment to verify the boy's identity. Male, seventeen, 5-foot-5, 118-pounds wet. _Maybe_. Blond hair. Gray eyes. "Hiram Riddley?"

"H-how do you know my name? Who _are_ you?"

James ignored the questions, mentally checking the boy's face against the photo he had in his notes. "You go by the name "Ram1986" on the Internet?"

Curiosity was beginning to override terror, if James read the kid's face correctly, but the terror was still there. _Good_. "That's—that's right."

"You run a website called 'The Stars and Stripes Hotline,' which I assume from the design is a Captain America joke of some kind." James said. "You've been filtering the S.H.I.E.L.D. data files that were uploaded last year, raising public awareness—at least on the Internet—of some of their worst secrets. Why?"

He could see that Riddley's curiosity was sinking back toward fear again. "Are you here to...silence me, or something?"

James held his gaze. "No."

"Then why are you here?"

"I asked you, first." James replied.

Riddley frowned, inching toward an aluminum baseball bat that was propped in the corner by his closet. James inclined his head toward it. "Knife, eye socket, remember? Don't do anything stupid, kid. If I wanted to hurt you I would have done it by now."

"Why are you here?" Riddley asked nervously.

James sighed softly. "Why is a seventeen year old so concerned with government secrets that he spends hours at a time sorting through them and spreading them so other people will see?"

The boy seemed to consider that for a moment, then settled uncomfortably against the wall by the closet. "My dad...he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.. They told us that when Captain America exposed HYDRA...my dad tried to stop those ships from launching. They gunned him down."

"So, this is personal for you?" James asked quietly. He could see the anger in the kid's eyes from where he sat.

"Yeah."

James nodded. "Then, we have something in common." He pointed at the desk by the left window, which was liberally covered with computers and spare parts. "Do you think you could help me with this?" He pulled out the hard-drive that he'd ripped out of the computer in the bank vault after he'd killed his handlers, and showed it to Riddley.

Riddley stepped forward, staring at the dusty piece of equipment with fascination. "Did somebody..._rip_ that out of a computer?"

"Do you think you can get any information off of this?" James asked, again ignoring the question. The less Riddley knew, the better.

He wasn't entirely sure what was on it, himself, besides some of his own medical information. But, after the two cells in the Southwest, all of James' leads on HYDRA had run dry. He'd attempted to look through the data Natalia—he had trouble thinking of her as _Natasha_—had uploaded, but while he was familiar with computers and their uses, he was woefully inexperienced in navigating the Internet on his own. He had stumbled upon Riddley's website almost by accident.

The boy took the hard-drive out of James' hand and walked it over to his desk. He paused and looked up at James. "So, how did you find me?"

James frowned. "I found your website, and did a search for your 'Ram' pseudonym. I found a story your local news ran about you a few months ago."

"You saw that?" Riddley asked brightly.

"Yes. That was incredibly stupid." James replied. "The people whose information you're spreading aren't exactly the kind you want to give your address."

Riddley's face fell a little, and he lowered his voice. "Those bastards killed my dad. I'm not afraid of them."

James shook his head. For some reason, his thoughts turned to Steve. "You should be."

Apparently unable to counter that, Riddley quietly went back to examining the damaged drive. James just stood behind him and watched. It was mildly interesting, watching the drive being opened up, wires spliced, lights blinking—

"Would you mind not looming over me, please?" Riddley said irritably.

James arched an eyebrow and stepped back. The teen continued to work, pausing to mutter unintelligibly to himself. When James crossed his arms, Riddley stopped and looked up at him. "What was that?"

"What?"

"That noise."

James thought for a moment, then realized that the boy must have heard the servos in his arm moving. He shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. May I ask you a question?"

Riddley laughed quietly. "That's the first time since you broke in here that you've asked permission for anything."

"I was being polite," James ground out. "Why 'Ram1986?' I don't see anything in your room that shows any interest in rams."

The teen processed that for a few moments, frowning, then shook his head. "No, it's not—it's not the animal or the team, it's _ram_, like computer ram."

James just stared at him.

Riddley narrowed his eyes. "_Random Access Memory_, RAM."

James shrugged.

"Great," Riddley sighed and turned back to his work. "I'm being held hostage by a Luddite."

James frowned. "I'm starting to see why you don't have many friends." It was true. His observations hadn't revealed many acquaintances of any kind, outside the mother.

Riddley snorted derisively. "That was rude."

"Kinda on a clock here, kid."

"Well, this is going to take time. Why don't you sit down and try not to think about stabbing me anymore."

"That'll be an effort." James retorted. He suppressed a smirk when the kid's face went a few shades paler. He settled back by the windows, resting his back against the wall. It was going to be a long night.

TBC

A/N: _Hiram Riddley appeared in Captain America #313 in 1986, as a kid who ran a patriotic phone hotline, fielding calls about potential threats around the country that needed Cap's attention. I found him buried in Marvel's wiki page, and decided to update him for this story._

_The figures for the damage done to NYC are real. A research group that specializes in disasters and damage surveys studied "The Avengers" and came up with the $160 billion estimate._

Note on Time:_ I'm using military time for Steve on his mission, and "normal" time for everyone else. I hope it isn't confusing. I guess the only important thing to know is that the place where Steve is headed is 8 hours ahead of New York. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN-69)_

_Somewhere in the Red Sea_

_1800 Hours, Local Time_

The Greyhound shook and shuddered as it landed on the aircraft carrier's flight deck. Despite Ramirez's assurance that it was all quite normal for a carrier landing, it had Steve thinking about those rickety transport planes he'd been in during the war, and all he wanted to do was get out as soon as possible.

He had been in two plane crashes, after all, and in one of those had ended up asleep for seventy years. Steve had a right to feel uncomfortable.

Once the aircraft came to a stop and the rear door lowered, Ramirez led Steve and Natasha out and down the ramp, where an officer in a leather flight jacket greeted them.

"Captain Rogers?" He had to shout over the wind and deafening sounds of aircraft moving around the deck. "I'm Commander Singh, Executive Officer. Welcome aboard. Would you come with me?"

Steve and Natasha followed as Singh led them toward the carrier's tall bridge. All around the flight deck, crews were tending fighter aircraft and helicopters, and airport-style utility tractors were crisscrossing the area. But, Steve's attention was drawn beyond the deck, to the seas around the ship. There were almost two dozen warships in formation all around the carrier, far more than usual for a Navy task force. Cruisers, destroyers, a couple of frigates, and in the distance, Steve spotted the slab-sided hulls of Marine Corps amphibious assault ships.

Whatever mission the Pentagon wanted him for, clearly it was _big_. The force assembled there was not quite comparable in numbers to the enormous naval forces he'd seen at Sicily or Normandy, but with modern weapons, the firepower they carried was many orders of magnitude greater. Probably enough to overrun a small country.

_Oh_. Steve frowned but kept his thoughts to himself. What had the Army gotten him into?

Singh led them into the tall bridge tower and then down several flights of steps. The inside of most navy ships was akin to a labyrinth, but an aircraft carrier was worse: all steel bulkheads and low hanging equipment. hundreds of manholes, ladders and hatches, more than enough to get most people hopelessly lost. Finding his way around S.H.I.E.L.D'.s Helicarrier had been remarkably easy by comparison.

Singh ushered them through a hatch and into a small but comfortably adorned wardroom. Steve's eyes noted the maritime decor and the painting of President Eisenhower along one wall, but his eyes quickly landed upon Rhodey, who was standing by the table with two naval officers—the ship's captain and an admiral, judging by the uniforms—and an Army captain. A dozen others were scattered around the room or already seated at the table. The ship's captain stepped away from the group when he spotted Steve.

"Captain Rogers, I'm Captain Tom Mooney, welcome aboard the Ike." He shook Steve's hand before turning and pointing out the others by the table. "This is Admiral Connelly, task force commander, I believe you already know Colonel Rhodes, and this is Captain Coleman, Army Special Forces, and his team."

Steve acknowledged them, and clapped Rhodey happily on the shoulder. When Mooney eyed Natasha, Steve hoped his poker face held up under scrutiny. "This is Lieutenant Roman, Army Intel. She was assigned at the last minute before I left."

All technically true, he supposed. Rhodey made a face where none of the others could see and after that just kept his eyes on Steve.

Natasha saluted convincingly, flashing one of her disarming smiles. "I am Captain Rogers' DoD liaison, sir."

With the introductions out of the way, Mooney asked them all to be seated and handed the floor to Connelly, who moved over to a large video screen mounted against the bulkhead near the head of the table. A multicolored map appeared on the monitor. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure you're all curious about why you've been assembled under such secrecy. This is the Kingdom of Wakanda. I'm sure you've heard about it on the news recently. Three years ago, insurgents based in a neighboring country, Ghudaza, here, along with elements of the Wakandan Secret Police, staged a very bloody coup that deposed the Royal Family. King T'Challa and his wife and children managed to flee to the U.S., and set up a government in exile.

"All of this didn't get much attention in the media, because around the same time, _aliens_ invaded New York City," Connelly added, throwing a knowing look at Steve. "Then the Mandarin attacks started. But, eventually, T'Challa rallied enough of his military and some of the neighboring countries to fight back. For the last fifteen months, the country's been engulfed in a violent civil war, but the loyalists have finally gotten the upper hand.

"By this point, I'm sure you're all curious as what this has to do with _us_. It's recently come to light that the insurgents received most of their support from—and we think were spurred on in the first place by—American intelligence services. Specifically, S.H.I.E.L.D. and its subordinate agencies. We think they gave them advanced weaponry in addition to large sums of money. In light of this, the President has agreed to King T'Challa's request for American military aid in fighting Ghudaza and the insurgents. Which is where Colonel Rhodes and Captain Rogers come in. HYDRA has made major inroads into East Africa, and they have significant forces in Ghudaza, backing the rebels. The Wakandan military hasn't been able to gain any ground in over two months. We're here to tip the scales in their favor. Colonel?"

Rhodey stood and took the admiral's place at the screen, which switched to a blurred image of an African male, wearing a Nehru jacket and rallying a large crowd in a public square. "This man is the Reverend Doctor Michael Ibn al-Hajj Achebe. He is Public Enemy Number One in Wakanda. He began the ethnic wars that tore Ghudaza apart a decade ago, and used that violence as a springboard to launch his coup into Wakanda, with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s urging. He's a focal point for the insurgents' cause, and from what we can determine, is personally responsible for over six thousand deaths in the past five years alone. He is our target. The Pentagon and the State Department believe that unless he's taken off the board, the fighting will only get worse.

"His insurgents, known locally as the 'Volcan Domuyan,' are a small but very loyal group, and form the core of the forces fighting against Wakanda. Decapitate them, and it's believed the other factions on their side will splinter apart, giving T'Challa an opening to solidify his front and stabilize his country."

Coleman raised a hand. "Is this a kill mission, Colonel?"

Rhodey frowned, shaking his head. "No. As much as he may deserve it, the President and King T'Challa want Achebe captured and brought to trial. After that, I imagine they'll want to drop him in a deep, dark hole somewhere, but that's not our prerogative."

The map display on the monitor changed, with multicolored symbols and arrows representing movements appearing. Rhodey pointed to a large blue arrow coming in from the northeast toward Ghudaza's capitol city.

"In the confusion that follows, the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force, which you have probably seen embarked in those ships behind us, will kick in the front door, capture Ghudaza's airport, and hold it while the Army's 25th Infantry Division flies in from the Middle East. Once American forces are on the ground, they'll push south toward Wakanda, and catch both Achebe's troops and HYDRA's forces between them and T'Challa."

"That sounds simple on _paper_, Rhodey," Steve piped up, watching the animated display with mild interest. Military planners loved turning national maps into football playbooks, right down to the big arrows, X's and O's. Reality rarely met with their grand ideas.

Rhodes favored him with a smile. "It's also above our pay grades. _Our_ mission is to capture Achebe and turn him over to the international authorities."

One of Coleman's men, a thickly built Hawaiian named Liufau, raised his hand. "Excuse me, Colonel? May I ask, why does our team need..._reinforcements_ for this op?"

Steve covered his mouth to keep from smiling. That was a polite way of asking why Captain America and the Iron Patriot were along for the ride. He also looked at Rhodes, because he was wondering much the same thing. The mission didn't seem like one that needed a super-soldier or a man in an armored combat suit, however helpful they might prove.

Rhodey didn't seem offended. "Captain Rogers and I have spent the last year hunting HYDRA cells back home. Given HYDRA's presence in Africa, and the fact that they've been supplying advanced weapons to Achebe's army, HQ doesn't want to send your Detachment—_any_ Detachment—in without heavy support. This isn't a PR stunt, in case that's what anyone is thinking."

Liufau didn't seem any happier, but he turned his attention back to the mission details on the screen.

Coleman spoke up next. "What kind of resistance can we expect?"

Rhodes keyed another display, a close-up with terrain details and landmarks flagged. "Achebe's main camp is here, in a valley in Southeast Ghudaza, about a hundred miles from the front lines. Satellite and drone passes haven't shown any heavy defenses, and Achebe's army is heavily engaged with Wakanda's, but we shouldn't expect him to be wide open. The chopper will drop us in here, about five klicks from the camp. Enemy patrols will be light that far out, getting heavier the closer we get to the hills. From what we _have_ seen, there are about thirty men in groups of five scattered across the area at any given time. At night, that number usually drops to about twenty."

"Unfortunately, you'll be too far away for our fighters to provide effective air support," Captain Mooney added from his seat near the end of the table. "General Eilertson's Marines already have a forward base set up in Ethiopia, but even after they've left their ships and gotten into position for the invasion, they'll be hours away from where you'll be operating."

"When will they be in position?" Steve asked.

"Two days," Rhodey answered. "We go in tomorrow night."

"That's not a lot of time," Steve said, frowning. Military operations weren't something to be rushed or improvised. This seemed to be both.

"The invasion planning's been going on for a couple of months," Rhodey said. "But given how deep HYDRA's tentacles were in the intelligence community, the President wanted our involvement to be kept secret as long as possible. The last thing he wants is for HYDRA to close ranks around Achebe." To the other soldiers, Rhodes added. "I know you have a lot of questions. I suggest Captain Coleman's team go over the operational details tonight. Captain Rogers and I will do the same and we can meet again tomorrow morning to hash out any other concerns and cover any bases the boys in Washington didn't think about."

When Coleman agreed, Admiral Connelly dismissed the group and invited them to dinner in the Officer's Mess. The group filed out, leaving Steve, Natasha and Rhodey alone at the table.

"Nat, what are you doing here?" Rhodey asked quietly, double-checking to make sure the door was closed.

"I was hoping the hair and the glasses would throw at least one of you off," Natasha smiled innocently. At Rhodey's frown, she continued. "You both left town so abruptly, it made..._some people_ worry. I was asked by those same parties to investigate. I had no idea it involved this kind of insanity."

Rhodes smirked. "Tell Tony his concern is appreciated, but he can't forge official military documents any time he feels like it. I find it offensive."

Steve was impressed. Natasha hadn't even flashed her fake orders, yet. She acknowledged Rhodey's statement with a respectful nod.

"You've been awfully quiet about all this, Steve." Rhodes said, turning to him.

Steve stared at the map on the video screen for a moment, then shook his head. "This...seems _incredibly_ improvised. Why are they just springing this snatch and grab on us now? I saw the Navy's contribution when I was topside, you can't assemble that many units overnight, so they've obviously been thinking about this op for a while..."

Rhodes frowned. "I know. They only roped me in two weeks ago. They were talking about getting you involved, and I insisted they do it right then, so we could have time to prepare for all this. I even suggested you, me and Sam go in _without_ the spec ops team, but the Pentagon wasn't willing to hand it all over to just us. Then they didn't want the media getting wind of your assignment, so they waited until the last possible moment to call you. Then the Marines objected so the Army had to—need I go on?"

"Turf wars," Steve muttered, shaking his head. For all the problems he'd had with Nick Fury's methods of doing business, at least the bureaucratic internecine strife had been kept at a minimum. "Now we're scrambling in twenty-four hours to set up an op that should have been planned over weeks or months."

"If it makes you feel any better," Rhodey countered with a rueful smile. "Coleman and his men seem _really_ happy that we're sticking our noses in their sandbox, too."

Steve leaned back in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful..."

He felt Rhodes' eyes on him even with his shut.

"Steve, may I make a friendly observation? You look like crap."

"It was a long flight out," Steve grinned wanly.

"That's not what I mean, man." Rhodey said, not smiling back.

Steve sat up with a sigh, but endeavored to put a genuine smile on his face. "I'm fine, Rhodey."

Rhodes didn't look convinced, but thankfully didn't pursue the matter. "Why don't you get some sleep? The marine outside can show you to your quarters."

"Nah," Steve shook his head. "Why don't we find Coleman's men and see if we can't smooth some feathers? Any chance of finding some beer on this tub?"

"I've heard of 'beer days' from a few sailor friends. We can ask the X.O."

Steve smiled, with only a faint touch of sadness. "Someone told me once that if you're going to ask a guy to walk into Hell, you buy him a drink first. Let's go see if 'Captain America' can scrounge up some goodwill."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but seemed amused. "I _will_ ask the marine for my room. See you boys in the morning."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Montclair, New Jersey_

_The Next Day_

_8:00 PM, Local Time_

"At this point, he's barely even human, anymore."

They don't think he can hear them. The IV in his flesh-and-blood arm isn't adjusted correctly, the valve not letting enough of the drugs into his bloodstream. The sedative cocktail they usually administer during the maintenance periods on his arm never completely puts him out—his metabolism is too high for that—but he's rendered semi-conscious and unable to stand or walk effectively.

Except today.

The Soldier doesn't say anything, just sits with his eyes fixed straight ahead and listens. Most of what the technicians talk about is meaningless. Random observations, excitement over high-tech equipment that the Soldier can't begin to identify, let alone understand, the occasional comment on his medical condition...nothing remotely of interest to him. He doesn't really know if he _has_ interests, but he knows nothing the two men have said qualifies. They prattle on, oblivious to his musings.

"...heard he used to be a soldier, but I don't know if that's true. Seems kinda..."

Something in his mind seizes on the word "soldier." Immediately, he begins examining the room, quickly and without moving his eyes or changing his facial expression. One door, locked from the outside. Four guards, one M4 carbine each, one sidearm each on their belts, possible bladed weapons concealed, threat level high. Two technicians, unarmed, threat level negligible. If ordered, he can make it to the door in four strides, disable the first two guards in close-quarters combat, use a captured weapon to—

The electronic probe the technician is using touches something sensitive in his arm's inner workings, sending a jolt up through his nervous system and into his brain, shattering his situational analysis. His fist clenches, causing the plates along his forearm to shift and snap shut with a loud _shhnnnnk_. The technicians flinch and roll back in their chairs, alarmed. He senses their fright, but still doesn't move his eyes. The jolt was more distracting than painful.

"It's all right. Just a reflex. He's still out."

The Soldier makes no move to contradict the man or ease the other's palpable fear. He wonders what they would do if they realized he was wide awake. Some part of him wants to find out...

"Hey...James? I think I found an image gallery."

James blinked out of the memory, grunting softly at the sudden throbbing in his temples. Recapturing memories was less painful now than when Steve first freed him, but he still suffered headaches. The more intense or deeply buried the memory, the stronger the headache. Hiram had recovered schematics of his arm on the hard drive. Staring at them over the boy's shoulder had led James to the new memory. Hardly anything noteworthy, but he filed it away nonetheless. He never knew what might be useful later.

He focused on the boy again, noting the interested tone of voice. Hiram had proven very useful, and after some prodding, had taken to the project James had given him with enthusiasm. Still, after two nights of work, they'd only scratched the surface of what information was stored on the damaged drive.

"I just need to unlock...this...and..."

"Your mother sleeps a lot." James interrupted, glancing toward the closed door of the boy's room. The woman had retreated to her room soon after eating dinner. She'd been asleep since before James entered the house.

Hiram hesitated for a moment, glancing in James' direction before returning to his work. "Yeah. Ever since Dad died, she, uh...she's got some pills that help her sleep."

James processed that. Addiction, more than likely. It meant that the mother would not be a threat, but he noticed the strain in the boy's voice. He wondered if he should say something to comfort him, but James had no idea what. Hiram, ultimately, went back to typing and clicking the computer mouse.

"Ah-ha, got it. Ooh, _lots_ of pictures..." Hiram used the mouse to scroll through the images. James stepped closer to get a better look at the...what had Hiram called them? _Thumbnails? _

The boy sat up straighter in his chair. "These...these are pictures of _you_." He clicked a few keys on the keyboard. "The earliest one on here is marked _1948_." He swiveled his chair to stare at James with a mix of incredulousness and suspicion.

"Who—? Who _are_ you?"

James frowned. He didn't want to discuss his situation any more than he had to, but the teenager's curiosity was probably going to—

"Wait a minute..." Hiram was staring at one of the older, black and white images. It was James, unconscious on a lab table—already missing his left arm, so likely during one of the many surgeries he remembered enduring after the Russians first found him. His hair was shorter, he looked more like the version of himself he'd seen in the Smithsonian. Hiram jumped up and grabbed a book off his bookshelf. James noticed a picture of Steve on the cover, and smothered a sigh with his palm. The kid was too smart for his own good.

After a moment of flipping pages, Hiram stopped and stared at something in the book, then looked up at James. "Are...are you Bucky Barnes?"

James frowned. There was little to be gained by lying, since he still needed the boy's help. "Yes. I was."

Hiram glanced to the book and back at him, then at the computer screen. "That mechanical arm in the files...is that yours?"

Wordlessly, James tugged the sleeve of his hoodie up, revealing the gleaming metal plates of his forearm. He flexed his fingers, making the servos whine and click, confirming what he was sure the teenager had already put together. James idly wondered what kind of reaction he would get now. Fear, probably. Revulsion, maybe. He wasn't sure how children reacted to things in this day and age.

"I'm sorry."

James looked up at the boy with a frown. Hiram genuinely looked remorseful. It wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

"Did HYDRA do that to you?"

James nodded once. Hiram swallowed, but didn't move or look away.

"That why you want to get back at them?"

"Partly," James replied. "The less you know, the safer you are, Hiram." It was the first time he'd used the boy's name since finding him two nights before. It felt appropriate, somehow.

Hiram seemed to consider that, then nodded silently and moved back to his desk chair. "Let's see what else we can find on here."

James raised an eyebrow, somewhat puzzled by the boy's mild reaction. He moved to the corner of the bed and sat, so that he could watch the progress without hovering over the desk. He curled his fingers into his left sleeve and pulled the fabric back down over his arm, suddenly feeling self-conscious. James didn't remember ever feeling that way before.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Ghudazan Airspace _

_Fifty Miles from Landing Zone_

_0330 Hours, Local Time_

The MH-47G Chinook raced above the tropical forests of southern Ethiopia, barely two hundred feet above the ground. The constant _whump-whump_ sound of the chopper's large twin rotors filled the interior, like a rapid heart beat. Steve let the sound relax him as he sat on the canvas-covered bench near the rear loading ramp. The cargo netting strung along the sides of the compartment formed the back of the seat, and he swayed gently with the motion of the aircraft. It was almost enough to lull him into the sleep that had been eluding him the past few weeks. Almost.

The in-flight refueling over the eastern Ethiopian desert had gone off without a hitch. They were actually running a bit ahead of schedule.

He ran through the details of the coming mission in his head, hoping he, Rhodey, and Coleman—whom they'd agreed would be the mission commander despite the difference in rank—hadn't missed anything in their planning session early that morning. They'd decided to keep everything as simple as possible. Steve would sweep the area of their approach, taking out patrols as he found them. The Iron Patriot would remain mostly in a support role at first, but when Coleman's men had Achebe in custody, would attack the camp, creating enough chaos to keep the insurgents busy while they escaped with the prisoner.

Rhodey had wanted to fly alongside the chopper as an escort, but Coleman had decided against it. They didn't know what kind of detection equipment the insurgents had access to, and they might detect the armor's power emissions on the run in.

After they had Achebe, they would fly directly to the Marines' forward base in Ethiopia, rather than attempting a straight run back to the carrier. Any pursuit that Achebe's troops might mount would have to deal with the Marines.

It was a good plan, or at least the best they could develop given the Pentagon's rushed schedule. Coleman and his men certainly seemed up to it, and Steve had learned that they'd performed several similar missions in Afghanistan, so they had the necessary experience.

Certainly more than he'd had when he'd snuck into Schmidt's prison camp in '43. Steve huffed a small laugh at himself. He'd _really_ been in over his head, then...

"Captain? All set?" Captain Coleman asked, moving to sit beside him on the bench.

Steve nodded, patting the blue helmet in his hands. "Ready as I'm going to get."

Coleman returned the nod, and went about checking his gear. "You ever get to Africa back during the war?"

"Once," Steve replied. "But only for a few weeks."

"Ah, of course, Operation: Torch, right?"

Steve smiled. "USO Tour, actually. We did about twelve shows in Algiers and Tunisia before heading to Italy."

Coleman's jaw dropped a bit, and Steve had to pinch himself to keep from laughing. Rhodey was standing nearby, in the Patriot armor. Steve's earpiece hummed to life as Rhodey activated the private channel.

"_You love doing that to people, don't you?_"

Steve grinned. He turned to Coleman to let him off the hook when an alarm started _whooping_ loudly in the cockpit.

"We just got painted!" The co-pilot announced, checking the displays in front of him. A second alarm joined the first. "Missile warn—! Incoming!"

"Deploy countermeasures."

The pilot pulled back on the controls, and the huge helicopter lurched into a turn. The Iron Patriot lunged for the controls to open the rear loading door. Steve pulled on his helmet. They shouldn't have been spotted that far out from the target. Something was very wrong.

"Command, Stalker One, Command, Stalker One, we are under atta—"

Steve didn't hear the rest of the pilot's distress signal as the forward half of the helicopter exploded into a blinding fireball.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Camp Griggs, USMC Forward Operating Base_

_South of Dilla, Ethiopia_

_0340 Hours, Local Time_

Natasha would have preferred going on the helicopter with Steve and Rhodes, but her cover story as an intelligence liaison had put her in a proverbial corner. With no combat role, her chances of inserting herself on the mission were nil. Her friends were equally helpless in that regard, since they couldn't push for her inclusion without raising too many questions.

Getting herself flown ashore with the Marines, however, to await Captain America's return with the prisoner, had been surprisingly easy. So long as she stayed out of the way of the Marines' rather prickly command staff, no one paid much attention to her. Of course, that made monitoring Steve's situation rather difficult, so Natasha needed another option.

Fortunately, there was a small team of Army communications technicians on site, preparing for the eventual arrival of the infantry units from Afghanistan, who were far more hospitable to a "fellow Army officer" than the overworked Marines who were rushing to set up the base. Romanoff latched on to one lonely private named Kris, who was more than willing show off the high-tech communications and radar equipment they'd set up so far in their small corner of the base. She monitored the helicopter's flight from there.

"They crossed the border without incident, about forty miles to go. A few more minutes and the fireworks start," Kris said, adjusting the volume on his headset where he would be able to listen in on the team's radio chatter. A green indicator on the large monitor in front of them represented the Chinook and its projected flight path.

"Will we be able to see them once they leave the helicopter?" Natasha asked.

"Um-hmm," Kris tapped a control, and a smaller monitor lit up, but only showed a standby screen. "Once they're on the ground, their helmet cams will connect with the satellite uplink."

Indicators on the large monitor began to blink. Kris frowned. "Uh-oh."

Natasha frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

The private unplugged the headset so that the sound played from the speakers on the desk. The Chinook pilots' voices could be heard.

"..._Incoming!_"

"_Deploy countermeasures_."

" _Command, Stalker One, Command, Stalker One, we are under atta—_"

The green indicator blinked red, then vanished off the screen.

"What happened?" Romanoff demanded.

"I don't know," Kris replied, panic edging into his voice. He entered commands on his keyboard, and a slow-motion replay of the last few minutes was displayed on the screen. "That's a surface-to-air missile warning, but...they were miles away from the target zone. The only way someone should have been able to take a shot at them out there is—"

Natasha finished the thought for him. "Is if someone knew they were coming."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Eastern Ghudaza_

_0355 Hours, Local Time_

The stench of smoke was the first thing Steve was aware of, followed quickly by an intense headache and the all-too-familiar feeling of being completely buried in debris. He tried to take stock for a moment, noting his shield beneath him, the edge cutting into his ribcage, and the wad of canvas netting from the back of the helicopter seat draped over his throbbing head.

He reached up with his left arm, carefully, in case he was more wounded than just an apparent concussion, and tried to dislodge the netting. It took a few seconds to pull his head free. His vision cleared enough for him to see that he was lying face down on the forest floor, covered in scraps of metal and plastic, random bits and pieces of shattered equipment and a few of the soldiers' heavily loaded rucksacks from the overhead storage nets. Steve pushed himself to his hands and knees with a groan. His sides hurt, his head felt like it weighed as much as the chopper, and his right hand and arm were smarting from where he landed atop his shield.

That was...what? Three or four times in a year? Steve was really tired of being hit with missiles and grenades.

"_Here_." The Iron Patriot's electronically modulated voice seemed all too loud for Steve's aching head. He looked up to find Rhodey standing over him, offering his armored hand to stand up. Steve took it gratefully, but immediately regretted being upright when the vertigo hit. He sagged against Rhodes for a moment before finding his legs. "What the hell happened? Thought we were too far out to be shot at."

"_Me too_," Rhodes replied. "_Can you stand?_"

"I'll manage." Steve said, sliding his shield into its place on his back and trying to stand as level as he could until the dizziness receded.

Rhodes moved away, clearing out wreckage and looking for survivors. Steve spied Coleman sitting against a large section of the Chinook's scorched hull. Or maybe it was the landing ramp? There was so little left of the vehicle it was hard to determine what even the largest pieces used to be. Steve staggered over and knelt beside him. "You okay?"

"I'm alive," Coleman said, dabbing at a cut along his forehead. "Thanks to you."

Steve frowned at him, confused.

"When the chopper started falling, you grabbed me and put us behind that shield. We were thrown clear when we hit the ground."

Steve didn't remember any of that. Coleman gestured toward Steve's helmet. "Take it off for a second."

He complied, groaning anew as he tugged the suddenly too-tight helmet free. Maybe his head was literally swollen. Steve laughed faintly at the image. _Gotta draw that later_...

The sound of snapping fingers brought his attention back to Coleman. "Hey, Cap! Focus for me, man. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Steve shrugged. "Easy. Four."

Coleman nodded. "Not bad. Only two off. Sit down before you fall over, Captain."

Shaking his head slowly, Steve motioned toward the rest of the debris around them. "No, we need to find out who else made it. I'm fine...I'll _be_ fine. I've had worse."

Coleman frowned, but motioned to be helped up. Steve heaved him to his feet, noticing that the captain was favoring his right leg. He slid Coleman's arm over his shoulder and together they slowly made their way in Rhodey's direction.

"Bet you never had this kind of reception when you were with the USO," Coleman said, grinning.

"You didn't see my first show in Italy," Steve shot back. "Crashed and burned."

As they neared Rhodes, they spotted Liufau, bloodied and bruised, but apparently all right. He was squatting off to the side, checking his remaining gear. Not as happily, Steve spotted two other members of the squad behind the big Hawaiian, unmoving, scraps of canvas from the helicopter's bench seats covering their faces. _That's two, so far_, he thought sadly.

Rhodes had uncovered another soldier from beneath the remains of one of the Chinook's huge engines. After a moment, he stood and looked over at Coleman and Steve. The armored faceplate was unreadable, but the slump of Rhodes' shoulders wasn't. He moved deeper into the wreckage without a word.

The only other survivor they found was one of the squad's communications specialists. Steve tried to remember his name...Farouk, that was it. Steve had met him the night before. An Egyptian by birth, lived in the States since he was two. He was dazed, muttering quietly to himself among the smoking fragments of one of the bulkheads. Coleman kneeled beside him, smacking his jaw lightly to rouse him. "Hey, Daki. Daki! Wake up."

The man—boy, really—muttered a few more incoherent words, then blearily opened his eyes and tried to focus on his C.O.. It was clear he wasn't completely conscious. He coughed when he tried to speak.

"H-hail...HYDRA..."

All three of the standing men froze in place. Steve's foggy brain took a minute to process what he'd heard, far longer than it took Coleman, who lunged at the younger soldier. "You son of a—!"

Steve stepped forward, pulling the captain off the man. "Hey. Hey! Save it."

"_Guess now we know how they knew we were coming_." Rhodes said grimly.

"We need to call for evac." Steve said to Rhodes, still holding Coleman away from their treacherous teammate. It was finally getting easier to stand up on his own.

"_Not going to be that easy_," Rhodey replied. "_I got nothing but white noise...we're being jammed_. _Not even Tony's secure-sat frequencies are getting through_."

Steve turned back to Coleman, tapping his shoulder to focus his attention and pointing at the specialist's pack. "Check his comm equipment. Maybe he'll have a channel that's clear."

"_Sooner the better_," Rhodes interjected, facing across the clearing from their crash site. "_We've got company_."

Steve grabbed some night-vision binoculars and stepped over to join him. The clearing was a few miles across. Along its southern edge, he spotted a dozen or more armed men. A few wore military uniforms, others civilian clothing, but all were packing rifles and flashlights. And they were headed toward the crash site with haste.

"We need a defensible location, somewhere we can lay low until the cavalry gets here." Coleman said from Steve's right.

Rhodey's helmet dipped for a moment as he consulted the maps they'd uploaded into the Patriot armor's memory banks that morning. "_There's a town not far from here, to the Northeast. About five miles behind us. But it'll be a helluva race with them on our tails_."

Steve knew his friend was right. Coleman was injured, Liufau less so, they had a stunned prisoner...it would be a running gunfight all the way to the town. He doubted they make it even halfway under those conditions. "We'll have to slow them down, first."

The Patriot's glowing reddish-white gaze shifted to him. From that angle, the lines of the helmet formed a dour frown. "_What's this 'we,' Steve? You're in no condition to take on an army_."

"I've had worse."

"You keep sayin' that," Coleman muttered doubtfully.

"We don't need to fight the whole force," Steve explained. "Just sow enough chaos that we can pull out without them following right away."

Rhodey sighed audibly, but didn't object further. He could calculate their chances as well as Steve. "_What's the play?_"

Steve thought for a moment, watching the advancing line of lights in the distance. They were moving in quickly. "Run and gun. Just like Houston last year."

"_We had Sam as decoy for that_."

"We'll just have to do double duty." Steve replied. He turned to Coleman and Liufau, who had joined them. "You two take Daki. Head for the village." He pointed toward the Northeast, hoping the town was as easy to find in the dark as it sounded.

Coleman didn't look happy. "Captain—"

"Rhodey and I will be right behind you." Steve said, his tone brooking no argument. "We've done this sort of thing before. Get going."

The two soldiers didn't look at all happy about it, but they obeyed. They dug out some plastic zip ties—which, ironically, they'd planned to use on Achebe, not one of their own—and tied Corporal Farouk's hands behind his back. Liufau took the extra precaution of slapping a piece of tape from the first aid kit none too gently over his mouth. Farouk seemed more aware, eyes wide, no doubt realizing that they knew his true allegiance.

As Coleman led his group into the dark forest, Rhodes turned, his faceplate lifting so Steve could see his unhappy expression. "We haven't exactly done _this_ before."

Steve smiled faintly, but there was little happiness behind it. "You said it yourself, they'll be all over us before we get to the village. We gotta slow 'em down."

Rhodes sighed. "Are you sure you're up to this? You can go with the others..."

Steve pulled his helmet on over his still sore head. The headache was still there, but the adrenaline was starting to clear his mind. Enough to function, anyway. He actually _had_ had worse. He motioned past the wreckage of the chopper with his right thumb. "I'll circle out, flank them. Just keep their eyes up for me."

"Yeah. Be careful, Steve." Rhodes said as he lowered his faceplate. The assorted gun and missile pods on the Patriot armor were already opening and humming to life. Steve took a deep breath and released it, steadying himself, then took off into the forest.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Steve Rogers was out of his mind, but that never seemed to stop him from being right.

Rhodey flew a big circle, about a hundred feet in the air, strafing Achebe's troops with his minigun and occasionally dropping flares and smoke grenades into their midst. It was quite a light show, and they were just as distracted and disoriented as Steve had hoped. Many were falling back toward the trees at the edge of the clearing, some simply diving for whatever cover they could find behind rocks, fallen trees, and in gullies.

A few were either well-trained—or stupid enough—to stand and return fire. Rhodey dispatched them with blasts from his repulsors or nonlethal "icer" rounds that Tony had appropriated from the defunct Cybertech Corporation's seized warehouses.

Throughout, Rhodey kept an eye his HUD, which was displaying the real spectacle. Steve had emerged from the treeline on the left flank at full speed, plowing through unsuspecting squads and reducing the enemy line to utter chaos.

Steve was an artist with that shield. He saw Rogers hurl it as he approached a squad of three men. It struck one man's helmet, knocking him cold, then rebounded, glanced off a tree trunk and hit a second man in the back. Steve delivered a roundhouse kick to the third man before catching the spinning disc from the air and moving on to the next group.

The _plink-plink_ of a few AK-47 rounds glancing off his armor forced Rhodes to switch his attention to another group of soldiers who were using a large fallen tree for cover. His infrared scan showed five men huddled there, two standing and firing on him. He kicked in his afterburners and dove low, racing past the tree at head level. "Icer" rounds dropped the two gunmen. As Rhodes pulled up and gained altitude, he looked back. The glowing display showed Steve skidding in like a baseball player heading for home plate. The three remaining men were swept off their feet and onto their backs. Rogers turned and swung his shield in a wide arc, bludgeoning two of them into unconsciousness. A left hook downed the last man.

Rhodey noted that Steve was a little slower than normal when he left the scene. Steve's body had a rapid healing factor, but it still required rest, which he hadn't been able to get after the crash. He toggled his comm, hoping the short range signal could punch through the interference. "I think we've got 'em, Cap. Fall back."

"_R-zzz-ger th—_," Steve's voice came through garbled, but he clearly got the message, as he made a bee-line for the side of the clearing. Rhodey swung around to cover his escape route, laying down fire to keep the enemy troops occupied.

He was about to turn and pick up Steve for a faster withdrawal, when he saw a group of soldiers emerge from the trees near Rogers' position. They were more heavily outfitted than the other troops, with body armor, heavy assault rifles and dark visors on their helmets. HYDRA troops. Rhodey had seen plenty of them in the past year.

One of them raised a long-barreled weapon and fired. Whatever it was slammed Steve in the back, and Rhodey's HUD registered an energy discharge. Another round caught Steve in the side, and that time Rhodes saw the electricity arc around his body. Some kind of souped-up tazer, it seemed.

Rhodes turned and swooped down. Whatever they were using was unlikely to stop his armor.

A bright flash to his left caught his attention. His HUD flashed red and displayed a warning. He barely had time to hit his left hand repulsor and spin out of the way. The 125mm tank shell glanced off his chest-plate just hard enough to set off its detonator. The explosion flipped Rhodes head over heels. He was almost a hundred yards away when the autopilot managed to steady him and he righted himself. He quickly found the source of the shell: an old Soviet-built T-72 had rumbled out of the treeline, and was already lining up another shot at him. Dozens of Achebe's troops were rushing for cover behind the tank's armored bulk.

"_Rh-zz-dey! Ge-zzz out of here!_" Steve's voice could barely be heard over the interference.

"Not a chance, Steve. Hold on!" Rhodes called back. He headed back toward Steve.

"_There-zzz more coming! Get zzz-zzz Coleman!_" Steve said urgently.

Even as Rhodey processed the garbled words, a line of vehicles crashed through the underbrush and raced into the clearly. A mix of old jeeps, trucks, and motorcycles was followed by an armored troop transport and another T-72.

"_Get Coleman and zzz-zzz men out!_" Steve shouted over the comm. The HYDRA troops had surrounded Steve, now. When he attempted to resist, they put another tazer round into his back.

Tracer fire and more tank shells were coming Rhodey's way. He gritted his teeth. The enemy's cavalry had gotten there first. It was too late.

He turned and hit his afterburners, hoping to get to Coleman in time to grab the trio and flee before the wave of vehicles reached the crash site.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_White House Situation Room_

_Washington, D.C._

_10:00 PM Local Time_

Matthew Ellis barged through the doors to the Sit Room, General Serrano and Defense Secretary Chambers on his heels. He walked straight for Admiral Pollack, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"What the hell happened, Admiral?" To the others around the table who'd stood when he entered, he waved his hand. "Take your seats."

Pollack wore a grim expression, but met Ellis' ire unflinchingly. "We lost contact with the helicopter around 0340 Ghudazan time, sir, when they were making their run in to the target. We've had no contact since their distress call, and the helicopter's transponder isn't broadcasting either."

"We sent two of the best counter-terrorism assets we have over there so they could help, not for someone to use as target practice," Ellis said in exasperation. He took a deep breath and dropped into his seat at the head of the table, briefly scanning the documents that had been laid out for him. "Where exactly did they go down?"

A map appeared on the projection screen at the other end of the room. Red indicators marked the crash site. "Right about here. Eastern Ghudaza, roughly twenty-nine miles inside the border," Pollack said. "Far enough away that they _should_ still have been safe, Mr. President. The fact that they weren't—"

"All but confirms what we suspected all along," Serrano growled. "That we still have HYDRA moles in our intelligence agencies."

The prospect was troubling, but Ellis couldn't deny the probability. In the year since S.H.I.E.L.D.'s downfall, his administration had purged dozens of HYDRA sleepers from the ranks of the military, the CIA, FBI, NSA, even Congress. The news had been filled with civilian trials and military tribunals for months. But, for all their efforts, they kept finding more HYDRA agents. They were living up to their "two more heads" mantra frighteningly well. The Europeans and Chinese were having similar difficulties in their halls of power.

Ellis looked down the table to his Director of National Intelligence. "Paul?"

"A Keyhole satellite made a pass over the crash site an hour ago. At the time, the area was swarming with insurgents, but given the terrain it's impossible to get firmer details." Cabot replied.

"What about Insight?" Ellis asked.

"No progress, sir. Our team is still working around the clock, but..."

CIA and NSA experts had been trying to break in and take control of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s network of advanced Insight satellites for eight months, but their best programmers had been stymied. One report he'd seen described the programming of the satellites' control systems as "irrational." Others stated that the systems' coding changed every time they tried to access it. Ellis privately felt that that gave more credence to Roger's and Romanoff's report about the sentient computer program they'd found in New Jersey, regardless of what excuses the experts in his intelligence community kept giving him.

"If Captain Rogers and Colonel Rhodes survived the crash and were taken prisoner, Achebe and HYDRA will probably parade them on international television." Pollack said grimly.

"That's actually a good thing, Mr. President," Serrano said. "It means they'll be kept alive."

Ellis considered that. "Rescue options?"

"The Marines can launch a SAR from their base in Ethiopia within the next few hours." Pollack said.

"What kind of force are we talking about?"

"Two Hueys for the search and rescue, four Cobra gunships for escort and fire support if the crash site is still in enemy hands."

Serrano didn't look pleased. "But if HYDRA saw our spec ops squad in their _one_ helicopter coming, they'll certainly see a large rescue team coming before they even get to the border."

Pollack nodded. "The Marines have four Harriers on site, and they're preparing spots for eight more as we speak. They can send them over the site first, in case there are any more surprises waiting."

Ellis nodded. The element of surprise—that had been hoped to make the entire Ghudaza campaign a success—was already out the window. "Send the jets in with the rescue team, Admiral. Let me know when their ready to move."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Location Unknown_

Steve's head was swimming. He reached up to hold his head—or tried to at least. His arms wouldn't budge. He forced his eyes open...only to find them so blurred that it wasn't much help. In the dim light, he could see that he was lying on his back. Steve tried to sit up...which he did, surprisingly. He looked down, squinting, and could focus enough to see the thick metal shackles around his wrists. That explained why he couldn't sit up all the way. He tested his legs, only to find his ankles trapped in similar restraints.

"He's awake again. Increase the dosage."

Steve jumped at the sudden voice, turning his head to see a person step in close, blocking whatever view of the room he might have had. He felt a sharp jab in his arm, and after a moment the room began to spin a bit faster.

He dropped back against the...was it a table? No mattress, no pillow...felt like a table.

"What of the iron one...Rhodes?" The same man asked.

"No sign yet, Reverend. We are searching the forest."

The first speaker moved into Steve's line of sight. He was dark-skinned, thin, and wore a broad, unsettling smile. "It is an honor to meet you, Captain America. Truly."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"I'm just glad you made it out in one piece, Steve." Sharon Carter said, nursing her latte across the table from him. The bright lights of Stark Tower lit up the sky behind her. The night air was nippy, much to Steve's discomfort.

His metabolism burned hot, rendering his body warm to the touch, but his aversion to the cold—based on years of illness before the war and not at all helped by seventy years spent under ice—was as strong as ever. He preferred to stay indoors this time of year. Steve glanced down at his own steaming mug of coffee, but didn't reach for it.

"How did you get out?" Sharon asked, watching him.

Steve shrugged. "I...honestly don't remember. I guess Rhodey found me. Next thing I know, I'm waking up here in New York."

She smiled. "Well, like I said, I'm glad. It's been a long time. You've been busy this past year."

He nodded. "It's been...tough since Washington."

"I hear you spent a lot of that time raiding HYDRA bases." Sharon replied. "You should be commended for your success."

"I, uh, I can't really...we shouldn't talk about that." Steve said, casting a wary eye around the cafe.

She smiled. "It was hardly a secret, Steve. But, I understand. If you don't mind me saying, it seemed a little personal for you. Why were you determined to go after them?"

He bit his lip. He hadn't told many of his friends about Bucky, or his alter-ego the Winter Soldier. Rhodey, Tony, Thor, Bruce...people who could help either with his search or picking up the pieces of who or what he found, but for the most part he'd kept his quest to himself. "I...I was looking for someone. Someone who got caught up in the mess with HYDRA in D.C.."

"Ah," Sharon said with a slight nod. "Did you find them?"

"Not yet." Steve said, looking at his coffee again. The air really was too cold for his liking.

"Well, maybe I can help?" Sharon blushed slightly. "We don't get to see much of each other...it would give us an excuse to work together."

Steve blushed slightly himself. "Sharon...thank you, but...you don't want to be involved with this, trust me. It's too dangerous."

"Still, I'd like to help. Why don't you give me a name? I can at least help you run down some information. Talk to me, Steve, please..."

The lights of Stark Tower flickered behind her head. Steve glanced up, but the building was gone before his gaze could sweep over it. He looked back at Sharon's smiling face. She seemed to genuinely want to help him... He looked back to his coffee, and went to reach for it.

His hands barely moved an inch before the metal shackles pinched his wrists and clinked against the metal arms of the chair. Steve blinked, the bright flashing lights irritating his eyes. The two men were standing in front of him, one with a tablet, the other working the controls of a machine.

Steve shook his head. His words slurred. "N-nnoooo..."

_The room_. He was restrained. They kept jabbing needles into his veins. When they weren't injecting drugs or taking blood samples, the guards were coming at him with crowbars and cattle prods. The air was cold.

The two men glanced at each other. The one on the right wrote something on the tablet with a stylus. When he spoke, Steve discerned a faint German accent. "Increase the dosage, he's resisting. Go two levels higher with the visual stimulation."

"I'm glad you got out of their in one piece, Steve." Sharon Carter said, smiling over her latte. "I was so worried about you. How did you escape?"

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Insurgent Encampment_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

_2:00 PM, Local Time_

"I was hoping that this accomplishment may persuade HYDRA to contribute more to our cause." Achebe said.

"_Your soldiers have performed extremely well, Reverend. The Captain's capture will no doubt be a significant public relations coup_."

Achebe frowned at the non-answer. "Yes, I am sure he will, Mr. Bakshi. But, I was hoping—"

"_We were under the impression that you already had sufficient aid to continue your fight for Ghudaza's independence. Were we mistaken?_"

"No," Achebe said quickly. "We have enough soldiers and arms to hold the Wakandan army, but if we are to advance back into Wakanda we will need more equipment and supplies than we have on hand. T'Challa's attacks over the past few months have depleted our resources."

Bakshi looked away, speaking quietly to someone Achebe couldn't see on the monitor. He returned to the conversation with a slight frown. "_You should realize that even our resources are stretched rather thin after recent events, but I give you my assurance that we will do what we can to provide you aid_."

Achebe smiled at the concession. "That is all I ask, my friend."

Bakshi didn't return the smile. "_Have you interrogated the good Captain, yet?_"

"Some of the...advisors you sent us have been with him for several hours, but to my knowledge he has not yet said anything of import. I was hoping to announce his capture before they continue with their...procedures."

"_Do as you see fit, Reverend. However, we would like you to forward to our lab any samples already taken. Our scientists are eager to examine them, and such an opportunity does not come along often_."

"Of course."

"_We would also consider the capture of the Iron Patriot to be of paramount importance_."

Achebe frowned. "The Captain has not provided any information on his comrades' escape. We have men out searching the forest, but they have yet to find anything."

"_I suggest consulting the Doctor. He has experience in facilitating cooperation_."

"I understand." Achebe replied, waiting until the monitor went dark to sigh in exasperation. He did not like dealing with..._it_. But, HYDRA's suggestions were not to be ignored lightly. He had little choice if he wanted their continued support.

Another monitor on his right flickered to life, an eerie green pattern resembling a man's face appearing. Achebe suppressed a shudder. _Has it been listening the whole time, or is this a coincidence?_ A scratchy Swiss-accented voice filled the silence.

"_Achebe, Michael Ibn al-Hajj. Born: 1971_."

Taking a deep breath, and trying to suppress his discomfort, Achebe turned to face the screen. "Doctor, we have captured Captain Steven Rogers, also known as—"

"_There is no need for explanation. The captain and I have...history..._"

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_HYDRA Research Facility_

_Undisclosed Location, North America_

"He does seem adamant in his need for assistance, doesn't he?" Doctor Whitehall mused from the other side of the desk.

Bakshi stood by the monitor, having already cut the connection. "Yes, sir."

Whitehall turned to watch the city skyline outside his office window. "The good Reverend seems to be the only person who _doesn't_ realize that the Americans are about to overrun his country."

"Should we withdraw our remaining assets?" Bakshi inquired.

Whitehall smiled. _Always thinking ahead_. "No. We must maintain at least the appearance of support. Let Achebe parade Rogers on television, and it will be yet another body blow to the Ellis Administration. When the Americans do come, our soldiers will fight to the last man."

"And Achebe, sir?"

Whitehall glanced at him. "I'm afraid his usefulness is at an end. Recover the samples our specialists have already taken from Rogers, if possible. After that, let events take their course."

Bakshi frowned slightly, but nodded.

"Worry not, we still have control of the Sandbox and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s former East Africa facilities." Whitehall sat behind his desk. "Now, tell me, what progress with the Obelisk?"

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Chinook Crash Site_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

_1500 Hours, Local Time_

Over the three years since he took command, Staff Sergeant Damien Knox's search and rescue team had been in a lot of action, rescuing many soldiers and Marines out of some often bloody messes, but the crash site he stood in was probably one of the worst he'd seen.

The entire forward half of the Chinook had been reduced to shards of metal, none bigger than a boot. The rear section was mostly intact, but about fifty feet away, and the forest floor in between was a junkyard of doors, wheels, and engine fragments.

Worst was the bodies. Knox's Marines had just loaded the ninth onto the chopper.

There were no signs of Colonel Rhodes or Captain Rogers. Three other members of the squad were unaccounted for—they weren't even sure who most of the dead were, given their state.

"Comms are still being jammed, Staff Sergeant!" Corporal Soto reported, having to yell over the _whump-whump_ of the Hueys' rotors and the Cobras that were hovering nearby, guarding their position. "Every channel is down, can't raise Command or the Harriers."

Knox nodded, then motioned for his second in command to join him. "Taylor, we're going to fan out from this position, search the area for—"

His orders were cut off by a sudden popping, then bullets were slamming into the trees and chopper debris around him. Knox dropped down behind the charred remains of one of the Chinook's engine cowlings. "_Cover!_"

His team hit the deck as more soldiers and several vehicles appeared from the tree line to their south. Fortunately, in the air above them, their Cobra escorts didn't need communications to figure out the situation. Two of the attack birds surged forward across the clearing, cannons blazing.

Knox knew, however, that it was only a delay. More vehicles and a few dozen more armed men had appeared. He had to get his team and their vulnerable transports off the ground. He made a hand signal for his group to fall back to the LZ. "Balleto, suppressing fire!"

Their machine gunner, an unapologetically gun-happy South Carolinian, dropped to a crouch near the first Huey's nose and laid down a steady barrage from his heavy machine gun while the rest of the SAR team raced for the choppers. The other two Cobras maneuvered in front of them, shielding the Hueys from enemy fire as they lifted off.

They were off the ground one minute later. As the helicopters turned north and headed away from the battle zone, Knox glanced back at his crew. Four of their fallen comrades were secured on the cabin floor, his Marines in the seats behind. He noticed that the leftmost seat was empty. He frowned. "Where's Corpsman McGee?"

"I—I think she's on the other chopper, Staff Sergeant." Sergeant Kirby yelled back.

Knox glanced out at the receding crash site, but saw no movement except for the four Cobras that were holding back the enemy troops. No one was left behind that he could see. He gritted his teeth. The corpsman was green, a new addition to the team.

_She'd _better_ be on the other Huey_...

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Insurgent Encampment_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

Steve squinted against the blinding lights. He tried to raise his heavily shackled arms to block his eyes, but the guards responded by sweeping his legs out from under him and dropping him to his knees in front of the three television cameras.

Whatever his captors had been pumping into him kept him dizzy and wobbly. He couldn't stand back up. The shackles felt like they weighed a ton, so he just closed his eyes and tried not to fall face-first to the floor.

The man before the cameras was ranting in what sounded to Steve's ear like a Somali dialect. He'd only just started picking it up when he and Natasha had been working with Rumlow's S.T.R.I.K.E. team, and he could only pick out the accent, not the words.

Natasha was probably worried by now. Steve knew little rattled her, but he also knew that she didn't like it when her friends were in danger without her. She was probably waiting back on the carrier with a big "I told you so" for him.

He wanted to talk to her, to make sure she knew he had forgiven her for...something. He knew it had to do with Bucky...back before Christmas. His brain wasn't working right...

Someone gripped him by the hair and yanked his face up for the cameras to see. He still didn't understand most of the speaker's words, but "Captain America" came through clearly enough just before a canvas bag was forced over his head once more.

_Great_...

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Just Outside the Village of Abaya_

_Northeastern Ghudaza_

_1630 Hours, Local Time_

Natasha shed Corpsman McGee's helmet and outer camouflage jacket, but retained the black Kevlar vest. She felt slightly bad about knocking the unsuspecting medic cold back at the camp, but there hadn't been any other options. "Lieutenant Roman" wouldn't have been let anywhere near the SAR mission, after all.

She'd studied the maps of the area that her new friend Kris had so happily provided back at the communications hut. Abaya was the only settlement in the area that Steve and the rest of the spec ops team could have reached.

Abaya was a small village, composed almost entirely farmers and a concentration of local tribesmen if her intel was accurate. About five hundred souls altogether, isolated and—thankfully—reportedly neutral amongst all the fighting around them.

Now that she knew for sure that Steve and Rhodey hadn't been killed in the crash, the village was the next logical place to search...aside from the insurgents' camp, which would need some more careful planning and considerable reinforcements.

If nothing else, maybe someone in the village would have a landline where she could get around the radio jamming and contact New York.

First things first, however. Natasha had to find her missing friends, if they were there, but she needed to avoid getting captured in the process. Just because the village wasn't playing an active role in the war going on to the west, didn't mean there wouldn't be spies or informants among the townspeople. She'd wait for nightfall, then start her search.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Montclair, New Jersey_

_11:30 AM, Local Time_

"I...think...I've...got it!"

James looked away from the newscast he'd been watching on Hiram's muted television—something about President Ellis' foreign policy—to find the teenager grinning and pointing at a group of lines on his computer monitor.

"This is the jackpot! I've unlocked the medical files." The boy proclaimed proudly.

James moved over to the desk, leaning over the boy's shoulder to get a better look. There were hundreds of files on the list, and judging by the names, they covered everything from the design of his arm to the cryogenic chamber to details about the mind-wiping machine they developed.

"Am I good or what?" Hiram said happily. When James looked at him silently, the smile dropped away. "Oh. Sorry...I didn't— I guess this isn't fun for you to— I'm sorry."

James frowned, but took pity on the kid. "No, it's...good. Thank you for helping me with this."

Hiram went back to scrolling through the files, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe these'll help fix...whatever they did to you, you know?"

"Maybe," James muttered noncommittally, studying the file names as they went by on the monitor. "Wait. Go back. That one."

Hiram opened the file he pointed out, then whistled softly as he scanned the pages. "Wow. I stand corrected, _this_ is the jackpot. Storage units, camps, bases, _addresses_...there's got to be a dozen places listed here. Practically a map of HYDRA throughout Eastern Europe. The old bases anyway, I guess."

James was grateful that the kid had left out the awkward truth. It was a list of all the places where HYDRA had operated on him or kept him in storage over the decades. If Hiram was aware of that, he politely declined to mention it. James nodded. "It's more than I had when I came here. Can you print this?"

"Yeah, sure." Hiram nodded, already clicking the mouse to do so.

"What about the rest of it? The medical files?"

At that, Hiram looked at him like he was joking. "Uh, no. That's _thousands_ of pages. But, I can put it on a thumb drive for you."

At James' perplexed look, he sighed. "Right. Luddite." He held up a small device. "I can copy it all onto this, you can plug this into any computer and read the files. That way you don't have to carry big box of papers with you all over the planet."

James considered him for a moment, then nodded. "That will work."

Hiram looked around his desk for a moment, then stood. "I have a blank one around here somewhere...whoa. Hey, James, look."

Turning, James found him staring at the television and reaching for the volume. On the screen was a banner that read "Breaking News" over a grainy video of...Steve?

"_...we have confirmed that this video is authentic. Captain America has been taken hostage in the African nation of Ghudaza. It is not clear at this time what role he was playing in the American-led military intervention there, but_—"

"What the hell is Steve doing over there?" James murmured to himself.

On the screen, a guard kicked Steve's legs out from under him, dropping him to the floor. James frowned. It made little sense. Steve should have been able to eliminate the whole crowd around him, but he wasn't. Then he noticed the hooded eyes, and the slack jaw. _Drugs? Has to be._

"_...there is no comment yet from the Pentagon or the White House on this latest turn of events, Judy, but we have received word of a press briefing scheduled for later today..._"

James scowled. He turned to find Hiram watching the television with rapt attention. "Copy the files. I have to leave."

TBC

_A/N: I wanted to tie in just a little with season 2 of Agents of Shield. They recently mentioned that the mysterious Dr. Whitehall was directly involved with the capture of Shield's "Sandbox" base in Africa. Seemed a good way to connect the dots to this story._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Steve sat across the table from Rhodey. The coffee shop was crowded; so many people milled about that all the hustle and noise turned into a constant background hum. He couldn't even see their faces. Light from TV monitors mounted on the walls played across the table, creating odd, distracting patterns.

"I still can't believe I got you out of there, Steve." Rhodes said, sipping at his coffee.

"I'm just...just glad you did," Steve mumbled, trying to make sense of the muted cacophony around him.

Rhodes smiled. "You were pretty out of it when I got there. Do you remember any of it?"

Steve had to force himself to think for a moment, his thoughts were all over the place. He shook his head slowly. "N-no. Nothing."

"None of it? Really?" Rhodes looked surprised. "Not how I came in? How many men were with me? Where our hideout was? None of that?"

Steve just shook his head helplessly.

Rhodes smiled sympathetically. "Mm. Well, I'm just glad you got us out of that crash site. How'd you know which direction to send us?"

The crash site. Achebe's troops rushing into the forest clearing. Steve blinked. For a moment, the coffee shop vanished, replaced by dark walls and flickering computer monitors. Brilliantly bright lights flashing in his eyes.

He looked down when something pinched his arm, but saw nothing. When he raised his head again, Rhodey was sitting across from him, quietly smoking a cigarette. Steve frowned.

"D-didn't know you smoked..."

Rhodes glanced down at the cigarette and smiled ruefully. "Bad habit." He put it out on the table. "You know, I can't remember who all got out of that crash. You and me, obviously, but who else was there...?"

Steve huffed a laugh. "Thought I-I was the one having memory problems."

Rhodes' expression didn't change. "So, you don't recall who else survived the crash?"

Coleman, Liufau, the communications specialist...was it Daki? He could see there faces in his mind's eye. Steve tried to clear his head, but the constant hum and flickering lights were so distracting...

"Coleman was the commanding officer, correct?" Rhodey asked, tapping the screen of his Starkphone.

Odd, Steve didn't know he'd said that out loud. He frowned. "You don't remember _Coleman_?"

"Should I?"

Steve's frown deepened. He shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut and then looking around again. The coffee house was gone. The room was dark, the air cold. He looked back across the table and saw two men, silhouetted against a bank of bright, flashing lights, one smoking and writing something down, the other turning knobs on a control panel. The light patterns hurt his eyes.

Ghudaza. Achebe. _HYDRA_.

Shaking his head more forcefully, Steve forced out the only word that came to mind. "_N-no_."

"_You are wasting time_."

The new voice startled Steve. It was higher pitched, modulated, like it was from a speaker. Electronic, maybe.

All the TV screens in the coffee house shifted to a fluctuating pattern of green and black. The jumbled lines formed shapes. Circles, angles...a face. Glasses. Reminded Steve of...something. Someone. He couldn't think.

"_Subject is too strong willed. You must bring order to his mind before you can continue. Order comes from pain_."

Rhodey glanced off to his left, looking at something or someone Steve couldn't see. He was frowning deeply. He didn't sound happy when he spoke. "Of course, Dr. Zola."

Zola? Steve's mouth twisted into a grimace. Arnim Zola was dead. Twice over, in fact. He'd seen the burned and crushed computer banks after the missile strike. He and Natasha had barely gotten away from that in one piece. He wondered what she must be thinking, right now. Probably worried, though she'd never admit it. She was probably waiting on the carrier with an 'I-told-you-so' for coming on this mission.

"_The __Fräulein is with you?_" The electronic voice sounded excited, even pleased. "_Alter your methods. The subject must be broken. You may be running out of time_."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Washington, D.C._

_9:45 PM, Local Time_

Sam Wilson elbowed the front door of his house open, growling when his key stuck in the lock. He tossed his duffel aside and yanked the recalcitrant key out of the door, muttering curses under his breath. Three weeks sifting through rubble with Mike Howard in Arizona had produced nothing. No idea what was at the HYDRA bases that had been obliterated, and no sign of who torched the places—though he knew exactly who it had been, he just couldn't find evidence. Things had only worsened from there.

Bad enough the already five hour flight from Luke Air Force Base had been delayed—turning it into an eight hour fiasco—then having to wait at Andrews for a security scare, his Starkphone's battery dying, having to wait on a taxi, all the while Steve was in trouble halfway around the world and no one had even told him that Rogers was leaving the country.

He closed the door, turning toward the kitchen to plug in his phone. He needed to call Natasha, or Tony, and see what the hell had happened while he was away. Two steps in, he stopped short and froze. The light in the living room was on, and the television was playing—sounded like the news. Sam drew his sidearm and crept forward as silently as he could, inching over against the wall for cover.

Edging past the entryway to his living room, he froze again. The identity of his home intruder was instantly apparent. Black jacket, ball cap, scowl, pacing the room like the proverbial caged lion— Sam lowered his weapon, knowing full well his presence had already been detected.

"We gotta stop meeting like this, Barnes."

Barnes didn't even look at him, his gaze instead transfixed on the newscast, which was replaying the same footage Sam had seen in Arizona. Steve tied, beaten, and insurgents ranting ultimatums and threats in Somali.

"How the hell did _that_ happen?" Barnes asked. He stopped and faced Sam, pointing at the screen with a metal finger. "I thought I asked _you_ to look after him?"

It was Sam's turn to scowl. He clicked the safety on his gun and slammed it down on the kitchen counter, marching all the way into the room. "Hey! I didn't even know he was gone! I've been chasing _your_ ass across the desert for three weeks."

Barnes' mouth compressed into a thin line, and he took a menacing step forward. It was then that Sam's anger ebbed just enough to rethink getting into a potentially unstable assassin's face. But, damn it, Steve was _his_ friend, too. Barnes had no right to criticize, given his own actions over the past year.

Barnes didn't come any closer, though. Instead, he glanced at the TV and then abruptly turned back to his pacing. Seething anger radiated off him. "What's Steve _doing_ over there hunting HYDRA by himself?"

Sam sighed, wiping his face with one hand. "I don't know. Rumors have been going around that the U.S. is getting involved in this East Africa business. I guess Steve got his orders. He didn't tell me."

Stopping mid-step, Barnes looked at him, frowning. "Orders? Who's giving him orders? S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone. Those Avengers of his obviously didn't go."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. _Damn it_. That was a subject he'd rather Steve was there to broach. He decided to plunge ahead, since he'd already said too much. "Uh...Steve, well, re-enlisted right before we went looking for you."

"He rejoined the Army?" Barnes asked softly, seeming to talk more to himself than Sam. His eyes flitted back and forth as he processed the information. "But, why would he...he was _free_."

Wilson blinked at the emphasis placed on that last word. He didn't want to even begin to consider what the word "free" would mean to someone like Barnes, who'd been enslaved to a terrorist cult for seven decades. He would probably think Steve—and Sam, for that matter—were crazy to volunteer for service again.

"Was—was it because of me?" Barnes asked, meeting Sam's gaze. He looked like he'd been slapped.

Sam nodded. "He knew the government would be looking for someone to blame after the whole blow up with HYDRA. He didn't want it to be you, so he made a deal. His end was that he had to re-enlist and help the military go after HYDRA."

He watched the former assassin process that, with a subdued shake of that head. Interestingly, Barnes didn't ask about the other side of the deal, what _he_ got out of it. Sam wondered idly what was going through the other man's mind. He'd learned in Missouri that, even in his current state, Barnes' protective instinct regarding Steve Rogers was formidable.

Ultimately, he didn't get any answer. When Barnes looked back at him, his expression was contrite, even a little embarrassed. "I need your help, Wilson."

Sam's brow furrowed. _Didn't expect that_.

"I can't leave Steve over there. HYDRA will kill him, or _worse_." Sam's attention caught on the 'worse' part. "I need to get to him. He might not have long."

Nodding slowly, Sam settled against the arm of his couch, facing the TV where Steve's image was still plastered all over the news. Given the security measures still in place at airports and seaports after HYDRA's re-emergence on the world scene the year before, even Barnes would have difficulty slipping onto a plane or outgoing ship.

"I was kinda thinking the same thing, to be honest." He said, looking up at Barnes. "I may have an idea about that."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Village of Abaya_

_Northeastern Ghudaza_

_0430 Hours, Local Time_

"HYDRA is the future! The world needs order—"

Coleman didn't try to hide his disgust. Farouk had been ranting and raving for hours. His interrogation of the traitor had turned into a long, exhausting argument with a fanatic. "And who decides what that _order_ is, Daki? A bunch of murder-happy neo-Nazi assholes? Or the soldiers out there putting their lives on the line to protect people? Soldiers like the men and women _you_ killed out there?"

Daki didn't even blink. "Order requires sacrifice."

The cold, detached zeal was getting on Coleman's nerves. They'd made it to shelter in the village, setting up in an abandoned outlying building. Rhodes had swooped down and lifted the three of them to safety, but Rogers had gone down holding Daki's friends back.

_It shouldn't be that way_. Coleman's rage resurfaced. Daki's enthusiasm for HYDRA was making his blood boil. He yanked his sidearm out of its holster and pressed it into the soft skin under the bound man's chin. "Oh yeah? How 'bout we sacrifice you, _traitor_?"

"Cut off one head," Farouk ground out. "Two more take its place."

Coleman growled, pressing the gun into the Egyptian's flesh. "I kinda want to see that trick—"

"Captain?"

Coleman turned to find Liufau on the stairs that led up into the main house.

"Better get up here, sir. We've got a visitor."

Suppressing a frown—both in disappointment at being interrupted and in confusion over his sergeant's cryptic comment—Coleman turned back to Daki with a sneer. "I'll be back. Maybe we'll try that head trick, then."

He didn't wait for a reaction, turning on his heel and climbing the stairs quickly.

The house was empty; whoever had once lived there had left little behind. A ratty blanket on a shelf for them to rest upon, and a solitary wooden chair—to which their prisoner was currently chained in the basement—seemed to be all that was left of the former occupants.

Taking the steps two at a time, Coleman entered the ground floor and stopped short. Colonel Rhodes was there, arms crossed. The Patriot armor was standing empty a few feet away. What caught his attention, however, was the woman in a black armor vest, conversing quietly with Rhodes.

"Lieutenant...Roman?" Coleman asked, eyeing the supposed intelligence liaison with suspicion.

Rhodes appeared contrite. "Yeah...I guess reintroductions are in order. Captain this is Natasha Romanoff, formerly of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Coleman looked from him to her and back. "The redhead from the Congressional hearings. Former assassin."

"On occasion," Romanoff replied. To Rhodes, she murmured. "At least the hair fooled _someone_."

"What are you doing here?" Coleman demanded. One of his own men had turned out to be HYDRA, and now secret agents were infiltrating the operation with Rogers. The mission had gone to hell almost as soon as it launched, and Coleman was running out of patience with all the surprises.

"Looking for you," She replied simply.

"I found her outside when I made my security sweep," Rhodes explained.

"You picked a good place." Romanoff added. "Outskirts of the village. Easily defensible. Back exit is covered in case you have to run."

"You alone?" Liufau finally piped up.

"If you mean the cavalry, then yes," she said. "There are plenty of insurgents around, though. The forest was crawling with them just a few miles out. The Army's intel says this village isn't exactly friendly with Achebe's men, which is probably the only reason they haven't come any closer."

"Great..." Liufau muttered, settling against the wall near the door to the basement.

Romanoff's eyes suddenly swept the room, then landed on Rhodes. "Where's Steve?"

Rhodes' grim expression grew darker. "I couldn't get to him. HYDRA captured him."

The former secret agent looked alarmed. "We have to find him."

Coleman chuckled bitterly. _As if it were easy_. "Not with just four of us. Even the Patriot armor isn't enough to get us through hundreds of HYDRA troops and insurgents. We wouldn't even get close to that camp, assuming that's where Rogers is at all. I don't suppose you can get a signal out to any of those Avengers of yours."

"Nothing," Romanoff held up her phone. "The jamming covers everything for miles. I came in with the search and rescue team, but the comms went dark even before we reached the crash site."

"Did you happen to mention this village to the SAR team?" Coleman asked, narrowing his eyes.

Romanoff, to her credit, appeared chagrined. "I wasn't exactly invited to join the group. They had a game plan, I tagged along. I've been playing things by ear since I got to the Marine's base camp."

"Wonderful." Coleman sneered.

"Are the Marines coming?" Liufau asked.

"They're gearing up, but for the invasion. I don't know how they plan to look for us, if they are thinking about a rescue at all. Last I heard, the orders came down to move up the date of the attack."

Coleman noted the use of the word "us." He shook his head, but given the extent of how fucked up the rest of the situation was, he wasn't in a position to decline anyone's help, even a professional liar like Romanoff.

If she sensed his resentment, she wisely didn't address it. "You have a map? Maybe we can find a way around the militia out there and get to Steve."

Rhodes glanced over, raising an eyebrow in question. Coleman grinned sourly and shrugged. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to go see what I can wring out of our traitor."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_New York City_

_11:00 PM, Local Time_

Tony Stark moved to a darkened corner of the ballroom and brought up a news site on his phone. Fundraisers had never been his favorite, though over the years he'd shown his face at hundreds of them. Pop in, lots of cameras, couple of martinis and then back to the workshop. That was the Stark way. Lately, though, with all the politics, backdoor deals to get his Arc reactor technology accepted as alternative power sources, and what Pepper called "the superhero obligation," Tony was forced to _actually_ attend the damned things from start to finish.

It was especially hard when his mind was somewhere else. The news was carrying another video: Steve being paraded around again, with more demands and threats hanging over his head. President Ellis was playing hardball in the press, unwilling to negotiate with terrorists, but Tony's contacts in the DoD hinted that he was about to put the screws to Ghudaza in a big way.

All that was fine, more power to them, but the trouble was, Tony wasn't sure Steve had time to wait for the Army to swoop in and save him. Steve was being tortured. Tony knew exactly what that looked like. And while he knew that if anyone could take it, it was Steve Rogers...it didn't make it any easier to watch.

Not to mention that he'd heard nothing from Rhodey since—

"Ellis has really blown it now, eh Stark?"

Tony turned to see the source of the alcohol slurred voice. "Senator Boynton."

Boynton was one of New York's sitting senators, a renowned neo-isolationist, and a loud critic of the Avengers and Tony Stark in particular. He'd been on TV after the Chitauri invasion piling blame on the Avengers instead of the marauding aliens that had ransacked the city. In the past few months, he'd taken the White House to task for their efforts to take on HYDRA and clean up the geopolitical mess left behind by S.H.I.E.L.D..

"Aren't you at the wrong party, Senator?" Tony asked, not bothering to mask his dislike, since the good senator seemed three sheets to the proverbial wind already. "Last I checked, the governor has a different letter than you behind his name."

"There's a difference between endorsing him and enjoying his food, Stark."

_Not to mention his booze_, Tony added mentally.

"You don't seem to be having a good time, though." The senator added, oblivious to Tony's attitude or, it seemed, the expression on his face. "There was a time you'd've been setting up camp at the bar."

Tony smiled back, with false cheerfulness. "I prefer getting toasted when there are cameras around. More fun for everyone."

_There used to be some truth to that_, Tony thought ruefully. Boynton, however brushed it aside. "I'm surprised Ellis hasn't dragged you in to clean up this mess with Rogers."

Tony spied Pepper near the buffet table, and began edging toward her. Boynton followed. "Well, if he calls, I'd be willing to serve." Tony said. "You know me, always a patriot first."

He wondered how many more empty—and non-quotable—platitudes it would take to ditch the drunken political hack.

"The military shouldn't even be there," Boynton went on. "Just another bloody crusade on the other side of the world."

_At least one more empty platitude, I guess_, Tony thought, continuing to make his way through the crowd toward Pepper. She always knew how to blow off unwanted guests.

"Now America's Golden Boy is showing up on TV, looking as dirty as Ellis."

Tony stopped mid-step and rounded on the other man, fake smile frozen on his face. "I'm sorry?"

Boynton continued, unfazed. "I'm surprised Rogers went along with this dog and pony show in Africa. I thought _'Captain America'_ would be smarter than that, underwriting Ellis' ridiculous foreign policy. The boys in uniform deserve better than—"

Tony's eyes narrowed. "I think, _Senator_, that if you actually _knew_ any of 'our boys in uniform,' instead of just making headlines off their misfortune, you might—"

"Excuse me," Pepper said from over his shoulder. "I hate to interrupt, Senator, but the governor wants to speak with Tony for a moment."

Boynton's surprised gaze shifted from Tony to Potts and back. Before he could reply, she added. "Maybe you two can finish this conversation when one of our close friends isn't being viciously beaten on global television. Excuse us."

Pepper snaked her hand under Tony's arm and all but dragged him toward the front of the room. "Sorry, it looked like you were going to punch him."

Tony grinned. "Not like he would have remembered it in the morning."

She smiled back, lowering her voice while guiding him through the crowd. "Any word from the rest of our friends?"

Tony looked at her with a frown. "How did you—"

"You think you can get the band back together without me knowing?" Pepper said haughtily. "JARVIS keeps me informed."

"Traitor," Tony murmured. He nodded. "Barton's about an hour out. Thor was supposed to be on his way from London, but I haven't heard anything else. He might have gotten tied up. Bruce is in Peru, so he can't make it in time... Proving a little harder to round them up than I thought. We need a Bat-signal or something."

"Hmm, well, it looks like someone got the message," Pepper said, nodding slightly in the direction of the front entrance. Tony followed her eyes, seeing Sam Wilson trying to silently get his attention in the foyer.

Tony turned to Pepper. "Listen—"

"I won't wait up," She lied, planting a light kiss on his cheek. "Go find 'em."

With that, Pepper headed for the bar. Tony watched her leave for a moment, then hurried toward the door. Wilson was waiting with Happy Hogan just outside the security checkpoint.

Tony jabbed a thumb in the direction of the party. "Happy, I'm heading back to the Tower. There are some Congressmen hanging out with Pepper who don't have security badges, you might want to tackle them."

Hogan grimaced, but headed for the door. "You know, you think you're funny, but..."

Tony watched him enter the ballroom, then turned a mockingly stern look on Wilson. "Don't tell me. Someone tore your wings off again."

He couldn't help it, sarcasm was a defense mechanism.

Wilson ignored the remark. "So, Rogers leaves the country and gets into trouble and no one calls me..."

"We sent Romanoff after him," Tony retorted defensively. "Obviously things went worse than we thought they might. You should really talk to your mentor about running off in the middle of the night."

Sam sobered. "We need your help, Tony. We're going to try and find Steve, but we don't have a quiet way out of the country. I was hoping you could solve that problem."

Tony snagged on the first word. "Who's _we_?"

"I have someone in my car who's very nervous about meeting you. Can I give you a lift to the Tower?"

That was actually Tony's plan, since he'd arrived there with Pepper in the limo, and needed to leave it for her. He grinned mischievously. "You didn't buy another Cruze, did you? I hear the steering wheels come out of those things pretty easily. And who the hell are you talking about, by the way?"

Even as they spoke, Sam was leading him out to the street and down the sidewalk. Around the corner of the building, away from the glaring lights of the gala, Tony saw their destination and frowned. It indeed was another Cruze._ Eh, what the hell? It beats walking twenty blocks in January_... "I'm driving. Give me the keys."

Sam eyed him doubtfully. "You want to drive a Chevy?"

"I'm no snob." Tony said. "Besides, I want to see how she handles when you don't have a crazed assassin on the roof."

Something indiscernible crossed Sam's face, but he ponied up the keys and headed for the passenger side. Tony opened the door and dropped into the driver's seat. He froze when his eyes connected with the shadow in the backseat through the rear view mirror. His eyes cut to Sam as the other man fell into the passenger seat. "I stand corrected. He's not on the roof, now he's _inside_ the car."

Wilson smirked faintly, nodded to each man in turn. "James Barnes, Tony Stark."

"Mr. Stark." The shadow said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable.

"Are you here to kill me?" Tony asked, only half joking. Maybe less than half.

Barnes' silhouette stiffened. His next words sounded offended. "If I were, you wouldn't have time to ask."

_Brutally honest_. Tony eyed Sam skeptically. "Start talking, bird boy."

TBC

_A/N: For the record, I am not one of those who thinks the Winter Soldier killed Tony's parents. I think that's too coincidental. The MCU can't be THAT small a world. Just my humble opinion._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Somewhere over the North Atlantic_

_1:20 AM, Local Time_

Stark was very proud of his jet.

For the first time—that he could remember—James cursed his acute sense of hearing. Stark had been talking—and talking, and talking—about the aircraft since they'd departed New York. Grinding his teeth, James tried to focus on the papers in his hand.

Hiram's work with the computer had dug up pages of information on HYDRA bases in Europe. The trouble was the data was decades out of date. James still needed to sift through the list and pick out the ones worth investigating. He started reading where he'd left off while Stark prattled away.

"So, S.H.I.E.L.D. wrote off the wreck after Legolas here crashed it near the tower, and I—"

"I didn't crash anything, Stark," Clint Barton called back from the cockpit. "Loki shot us down."

"Potato, po-tah-to," Stark replied, putting exaggerated emphasis on the second word. "Anyway, it took me a year, but I replaced the entire..."

James had heard it all before, when they were getting ready for takeoff. The power plant, the comms, the flight controls, the engines, the video displays, all replaced with variations of the technology used in Stark's armor. Storage units for his and Rhodes' respective suits, new weapons, up-armored cockpit and passenger compartments, a new drop hatch in the bottom so the Avengers could deploy without landing—James rubbed his temples.

The only part James cared about was the suborbital flight capability, which lowered the flight time to Africa from half a day to a matter of a few hours.

"Oh, I forgot my favorite part," Tony paused, looking toward the ceiling. "Let's vanish, J."

"_Activating retro-reflection panels, sir_."

"All this," Barton said. "And the stick still pulls to the left. You could've fixed _that_, you know?"

"Work in progress." Stark shot back.

Wilson plopped down next to James on the bench seat by the rear boarding ramp. James spared him a glance but dropped his eyes back to his printouts before Stark saw anything that resembled interest in what he was saying. "Does he always talk this much?"

"Only when he's excited. Or nervous. Or showing off." Wilson replied. "So, yeah."

James shook his head, but resisted rolling his eyes. Stark sounded like Steve in front of a pretty girl—

He blinked, suddenly seeing Steve fidgeting and stuttering in his mind's eye, hopelessly tongue-tied when someone—Agent Carter?—said something remotely flirtatious.

_Smooth Stevie, real smooth. I'm embarrassed for the both of us_.

_Shut up, she caught me by surprise is all._

_ Uh-huh. Just say the word and I'll gladly take her off your hands._

_ You shut your mouth, Buck_.

James felt a smile tugging on his mouth even as a new headache flared to life behind his eyes. _Damn it_.

"You okay?" Wilson asked, watching him.

He glanced at the other man's concerned face briefly, but didn't answer.

After a moment, Wilson spoke again, switching gears. "If you don't mind my asking, what are you working on there?"

"Business," James replied curtly.

Wilson didn't let up easily. "Kinda surprised you aren't looking over the intel Tony found."

James arched an eyebrow, mildly offended at the suggestion that his mind wasn't on the mission at hand. But, then he saw Wilson's expression, and realized that the comment was meant to cause a reaction.

James smiled thinly. "Steve's helicopter went down 47.4 kilometers inside Ghudaza's northeastern border. Assuming they weren't immediately captured, there are two villages in that sector, but only one within walking distance if they have wounded. Abaya: population five hundred, mostly farmers and local militia. They have no known ties to the insurgents, and are unlikely to be a threat. That's where we start looking."

Wilson seemed impressed.

"I was listening when Stark's robot hacked into the Pentagon's files." James added firmly. He still wasn't a hundred percent sure what "hacking" was, but that was irrelevant.

"Um, technically, he's an AI, not a robot," Stark muttered quietly.

"Don't _test_ me, Wilson." James gave Sam a warning look, then favoring him with an—almost—friendly smirk. "He was _my_ friend, first."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Insurgent Encampment_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

"N-no. No. I didn't say that—" Steve got a fist across the mouth for that.

"Rhodes, Coleman, Liufau, Farouk," the man said. "They survived the crash. Where did you send them?"

"You got it all wrong," Steve said, eyes rolling slowly back and forth. The drugs were strong. "No one s-survived but me."

He took a crowbar to the midsection for that. Steve wasn't sure which he hated more right then: the crowbar, the bat, the cattle prod, the syringe...or the men that wielded them. He supposed all was equal in a back alley. He chuckled to himself, but he wasn't sure why that was funny.

_I can do this all day_.

_ Why don't you pick on someone your own size?_

_ I think you like getting punched_.

Steve sobered. Bucky wasn't there to pick him up, this time.

"_Lies are counter-productive_." Zola's voice cut into his thoughts.

Steve cracked his sore eyes open, despite the glaring lights, and sneered at the glowing green face on the screen. "I wish that missile had finished you off, _Doc_."

"_Pettiness is unbecoming, Captain_." Zola retorted. Steve could hear the retaliatory sneer in its voice.

"After what...what you did to Bucky...you deserved to die." Steve said tiredly. He couldn't hold his tongue, either from the drugs or the exhaustion, he wasn't sure. Zola brought out his rage.

"_Seventy years is a long time to hold grudges. Sergeant Barnes was a masterpiece of science. We accomplished much with him_."

"You butchered him!" Steve shouted, yanking against the restraints so hard he broke the skin on his wrists. "Turned him into a monster!"

"_Scientific advancement requires sacrifi_—"

"He'll never be the same," Steve said, mainly to himself. It was far past time he admitted the truth. He'd been chasing Bucky for a year, holding on the glimmer of hope that his friend was just a few words away, a little hard work...but the Bucky he knew was probably gone. Tortured beyond recognition by HYDRA's so-called scientists. Butchers. Monsters. They'd stolen his best friend and stripped him down to nothing. A nameless soldier...

Steve was only distantly aware that the room had gone still.

"_Explain_." Zola demanded. There was an edge to the electronic voice that hadn't been there a moment before.

"What?" Steve blinked. He wasn't sure what he was being asked. Had he been speaking?

"_HYDRA records that the Winter Soldier died, April, Two-Thousand Fourteen. Is this date not accurate, Captain?_"

Steve hesitated, fighting the drugs that were making his blood rush and urging him to speak. He couldn't tell Zola about Bucky. HYDRA had to believe he was dead. Steve shook his head. "I...I don't know what you're...t-talking about."

He saw the fist coming, out of the corner of his eye. There was no dodging it.

_Keep your hands up, I said._

_ Good! Come on, keep it up! You're getting it._

Steve huffed softly. Bucky had used kid gloves back then, when he'd tried in vain to get Steve in shape to Army's fitness tests. He'd taught Steve to box, made him run laps, the works. Not that it mattered in the end. Even Goldie's Gym was gone, replaced by apartments.

Bucky's fists inside those tattered boxing gloves, all those years ago, hadn't hurt nearly as much as his bare hands on the Helicarrier the year before. Bucky had held back. The Winter Soldier hadn't.

_ You're my mission!_

"I'm sorry..." Steve murmured. More to himself than them. He wasn't going to get to finish his search for Barnes. There'd be no making up for his mistakes. It was already too late.

"_Does the Winter Soldier still live, Captain?_" Zola's voice cut into his thoughts.

Steve ignored him, but the drugs coursing through him were getting stronger. Pushing him to answer. To tell the truth. He sighed. "I'm...so sorry, Buck."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Village of Abaya_

_Northeastern Ghudaza_

_1330 Hours, Local Time_

Natasha was late. Damn it.

Damn it. Damn it!

Rhodey beat his fists together as he paced. Natasha had gone out to recon the village and see if she could pick up any chatter. The jammers were still in effect, so they were still in the dark about...well, everything. Coleman hadn't gotten anything from Daki except long quotations from the HYDRA bible. She was making rounds, circling back to give brief checks at their hideout. Two knocks on a window or the door if everything was all right. She didn't stop to talk, just knocked on the way past.

Romanoff's check-in was ten minutes overdue.

Rhodey growled. He stepped over to the Patriot armor. "Open."

Coleman and Liufau, who were sharing a salvaged MRE from their packs, abruptly stood when they saw him suit up. "Colonel?"

"Romanoff's late," He explained, closing up the suit around him. "I'm going to go che—"

Two knocks at the rear door of the house stopped him mid-sentence. He deployed the wrist mounted guns on his arms and marched toward it.

Through the rotted wood of the door, he heard Natasha's voice. "It's me, Rhodey."

Rhodes waited for the agreed upon All Clear phrase.

"Tony still owes you an F-22."

Releasing a silent sigh, he raised his faceplate and called back. "Come on in, Natasha."

The door opened, and she stepped inside. "Sorry for being late fellas, but I found some friends."

Four figures appeared from behind her, filing in. The first clomped past her in his red and gold armor.

"It's not my fault Congress shut the program down before I could pay for one!" Tony cried indignantly.

Rhodes laughed, clamping his armored hands over Tony's. "You're a sight for sore eyes, man." Looking past Tony's shoulder, he nodded to the next two men.

"Barton, Sam." He stopped cold as the fourth man's grim face came into view. "Um..."

Tony followed his look. "Oh. Right. Introductions are in order..."

The Winter Soldier closed the door behind them and gave the room a quick, silent inspection before he settled against the stone wall. Rhodey looked from him back to Tony. "Okay, I didn't see that coming."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Insurgent Encampment_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

"I still say we should try the water again."

"Why? He can hold his breath longer than we can pour. You can't waterboard someone who doesn't need to take a breath as often as we do."

Steve listened to the men argue. Bizarre, listening to people talk so nonchalantly about torture. Especially when he was the one being talked about. He groaned quietly. They didn't notice.

It was hard. The drugs pumping into his arm pushed him to answer questions. Even when he didn't want to, it was hard to keep his mouth from opening. Steve had been beaten up before, many times, before and after his transformation. Hell, Bucky hit harder than the men who were questioning him. Especially the metal hand...

A bucket-full of water hit him in the face again. Steve wasn't sure why they bothered—it wasn't like he was asleep. He inhaled a little of it that time, making him cough.

"See? Water works fine as long as we catch him by surpr—"

"Gentlemen." A new voice entered the room. Steve didn't look up. _What did it matter? Probably just the night shift._

"I would like some time alone with the prisoner, please."

There was a pause. If the two men answered, Steve didn't catch it.

"Now. If you please. And turn off the IV."

Steve heard some muttered words, but then he felt a hand touch the tube on his arm, and then he heard footsteps moving away. There were sounds of scraping...it took him a moment to identify it as a chair being dragged. A hand cupped his chin and lifted his face. He flinched when his eyes cracked open in the glaring lights.

"Captain Rogers?"

It took longer than usual for Steve's eyes to focus. A tall, bald African man stood over him. Once his brain collected itself enough, Steve recognized the face of the man he'd come to apprehend.

"Michael Achebe, at your service." The man said, adjusting his glasses and rolling a lab stool over so he could face Steve at eye level. "I felt we should talk...before the end."

Steve frowned. "Why...?"

"Because we have much in common, Captain." Achebe said brightly. His accent was soft, buried under a mix of Queen's English and New England English. Made sense, since he'd reportedly spent many years studying abroad. Didn't make his words any less preposterous.

"We have...nothing...in common," Steve said. His energy was waning after days of...how many days had it been? Two? Three? There were no windows in the room for him to gauge the passage of time and his tormentors never seemed to tire.

"Nonsense," Achebe chided. "We are both strong, proud men. Patriots. We would both die for our countries. Of course, you already have."

"I wouldn't...kill for mine," Steve countered weakly.

Achebe seemed amused. "Come now, I studied history, my good Captain. You have killed many during your service. Germans. Italians. Russians. Greeks. Austrians. Even some Americans in recent months."

Steve growled. "That was _war_. I'm a s-soldier. You're a...a butcher."

"I am a warrior, my friend. Just like you." At Steve's look, Achebe huffed a laugh. "Do you think my freedom fighters and I just walked across the Wakandan border and started murdering school girls and choir boys? Wakanda strangled our trade for _decades_, reduced our economy to ruins. Looked down their noses at our 'human rights abuses' and made us pariahs all over the region. Even when their sanctions lifted, no one would trade with us. T'Challa's father the king made certain of that."

Achebe abruptly stood, his rant picking up steam. "I studied Law in your country, Captain. I wanted to be a leader, to help ease my country's suffering and start to rebuild. I came home in time to see the starving lower class rise up and _dismember_ our dysfunctional government. What use for an educated man when everything I wanted to serve was laid wasted? What use for a man, whose wife and daughter had been killed in the uprising? I came home to _nothing_."

The story didn't match the bio the Pentagon had on the man. Either they had it wrong, or he was lying. Steve opened his mouth, but Achebe was practically debating himself already.

"Do not feel sorry for me, Steven Rogers. I made a new life for myself."

The warlord had it all wrong. Steve didn't feel sorry for him at all. Steve sneered at him. "You and HYDRA, you mean."

"HYDRA sees our potential. We share a common enemy in Wakanda and their hypocritical aristocracy. HYDRA will make us strong. And, soon, we will rebuild my people on the ashes of those who tried to strangle us."

Steve's adrenaline was kicking in, pushing back against the constant buzz of the drugs in his brain. "You tell me you're the hero here...but you're just another _bully_. What about the ashes of your _own_ people? What about the...the _thousands _of Ghudazans who died during your purges?"

Achebe's back straightened, but he didn't seem at all phased by the accusation. If anything, he looked _proud_. "Some must be sacrificed, if we are to bring forth a new order."

Steve shook his head, exasperated. Hitler, Schmidt, Loki, Pierce, now Achebe. It was always the same song. He sighed. "You...don't care how many you kill, so long as _you_ end up on top in the end."

After a moment, Achebe's grim expression broke into a wide grin. The switch was jarring. "I like this! This reminds me of the YDA. We would spend hours trading arguments between classes."

He clasped his hands behind his back, sighing softly. "I am sorry I waited so long to speak to you. It was nice to meet an optimist once again. This land has a way of...burning that out of a man."

"Glad I could help," Steve muttered, looking away. He wasn't glad, he was disgusted.

"I respect you, Captain. I am honored to have met you. That is all I wanted to say, really." He stepped toward the door, but paused before exiting the room. "You should answer their questions. It will make your remaining life easier to bear."

Steve sneered again and turned back to his captor. "You—you think I'm ever gonna b-betray my friends?"

Achebe shrugged. "You already have."

That brought Steve up short. "What?"

The other man tilted his head, as though Steve should know what he was talking about. "Your missing friend? This...'Winter Soldier,' whoever that is. You told Doctor Zola that he was alive. From the reaction, I am guessing that was not information they had."

Steve's blood went cold. "No..."

Achebe nodded sympathetically. "It is not surprising that you do not remember. You were barely conscious at the time."

"You're...you're lying." Steve could only shake his head. _No, no, no. I didn't— I_—

"I have to leave. The men will come back." Achebe almost sounded remorseful, and Steve almost believed it. "It serves no purpose for them to continue hurting you...but they will. I am sorry, sir. But, then, we have all made our choices, yes?"

The warlord turned and disappeared through the door. A few seconds later, Steve saw his interrogators walking back. But, all he could think about was what Achebe had just told him.

He'd betrayed Bucky.

He reeled. No. It wasn't possible. He'd never—

_ You already have._

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Village of Abaya_

_Northeastern Ghudaza_

_1445 Hours, Local Time_

"He hasn't given us anything useful." Captain Coleman said with clear disappointment on his face. "Just a bunch of HYDRA-worshipping BS."

James observed the prisoner. When looking at the others, the young soldier was the definition of arrogant defiance, but whenever his eyes glanced over James, something in his face flickered. He was nervous. _Good_.

He kept one ear to the discussion, but focused on Farouk.

"They knew we were coming...we need to know exactly what he told them."

"They don't know _we're_ here. We can take them by surprise."

"Too risky. We need to get Steve first. If we go in blind, they might kill him." Rhodes said.

"I'll get his cooperation," Natasha announced coldly, stepping toward the bound man. James reached out and gently gripped her elbow as she passed. She turned to him in surprise.

"Let me do it." James addressed her, but kept his gaze on Farouk. The prisoner squirmed slightly before he caught himself and stilled.

Natasha glanced from James to the others and back, then started to protest. "I don't think—"

"They're military," James said, nodding to the others. "They'll be held responsible for anything they do to a prisoner. The same for your Avengers. I don't have to worry about that."

Natasha blinked, clearly processing the cold reality of the situation. James could tell she knew he was right. She looked to the others, who seemed uncomfortable.

Coleman spoke up. "What are you going to do?"

"Get answers," James replied, watching Farouk. "Wait upstairs."

No one moved. James looked at the group. "Please."

Stark, Rhodes and the Army men hesitantly moved away, to the stairs. Wilson lingered, watching him. "Barnes..."

James met his gaze. "They've had him for almost three days, Sam. He's running out of time."

Wilson looked as though he wanted to argue, or spout some optimistic wish...but he just grimaced and walked up the steps. Natasha was close behind, watching James as she went.

Alone, he turned to the prisoner. Farouk's wrists were tied around his legs, palms flat against his thighs, and rope wrapped around his waist, knees and ankles. He wasn't going anywhere. James moved slowly, circling around so that he was in front of the man.

With exaggerated slowness, he reached up and withdrew one of the combat knives from his black body armor. The whirring servos in his arm were loud in the silence of the basement. When Farouk's eyes landed and stuck on the gleaming metal of his arm, James was glad he'd shed his civilian clothing on the jet. He'd been laying low for so long, he'd almost forgotten how intimidating the arm could be.

"You're going to tell me about the camp where they're holding Captain Rogers."

"W-why would I know anything about that?" Farouk stammered.

James switched the knife from his metal hand to his right, moving closer. "You were in contact with them. You told them about your route, your objective, who was on your team...you couldn't have given them what they needed to know without knowing what they wanted."

Farouk was shifting in the chair, pulling futilely against the ropes holding him. With impressive fortitude, he blew out a breath and stared James down. "HYDRA will win. Cut off one head, t-two more take its place!"

James favored him with a smile, reached out with his metal hand and grabbed the back of the man's neck, forcing Farouk to look down at his lap. With his flesh hand, he tapped the flat of his knife blade against the man's knuckles. "Who said anything about your head?"

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_1540 Hours, Local Time_

Sam beat his right fist against his left palm, shifting his weight back and forth. He didn't like this. Barnes had been downstairs with the corporal for an hour. About forty minutes earlier, they'd heard the distinct sound of a man whimpering. Every few minutes, there was a anguished shout. The others looked just as uncomfortable as he felt. Except maybe, Captain Coleman...but, Sam understood that. Farouk was directly responsible for the deaths of most of Coleman's squad.

Natasha didn't look too bothered either, but she was difficult to read on the best of days.

He was about to ask Rhodes how much longer they should wait, when Barnes appeared on the stairs and joined them.

"What did you do to him?" Sam asked.

Barnes glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged. "Nothing."

Sam frowned at him, but Barnes just pointed down the steps.

"Look for yourself."

Hesitantly, Sam did just that. He walked down the stairs until he could see the prisoner. Amazingly, Farouk didn't appear to have a mark or bruise on him. The HYDRA agent was just sobbing quietly on the chair, tears streaking his face.

"Jesus, Barnes," Sam murmured. He came back upstairs, shrugging when Rhodes and Stark looked at him questioningly.

Barnes was standing with Coleman, making marks on a map of the area. "He didn't know the exact location, but there are two permanent blockhouses...here, and here. He knows there's a command post in this one, and a lab of some kind right there. If Steve's being held anywhere, it's probably in that building."

Sam joined the others, looking at the map. Rhodes tapped a point near the buildings Barnes described. "Guard house is close. Going to be tough getting in there before they raise an alarm."

"Won't be a problem." Barnes said. He turned to Stark. "How close can your jet get without being seen?"

TBC

A/N: _Achebe was a villain in one of the early Black Panther comics. He staged a coup that overthrew King T'Challa and ignited a bloody civil war. He did, in fact, encounter Captain America after fleeing that country. _

_Daki, and you can't make this up, was Achebe's hand puppet, which he spoke to after going insane. Obviously, I used Daki differently, here._

_YDA = Yale Debate Association. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Insurgent Encampment_

_Eastern Ghudaza_

_1800 Hours, Local Time_

Rhodey watched the video feed from one of the external cameras while Barnes got ready for the drop.

The quinjet was cloaked, hovering a hundred or so feet over the center of Achebe's compound. Unlike the old turbofans, the repulsor engines Tony retrofitted to the craft made little noise, so the jet was virtually undetectable to the insurgents below.

On the holographic display, Rhodes saw the blockhouses Farouk had told them about, the guard tower next to them, and the guards milling around the perimeter. Other soldiers were at various positions: eating, sleeping, cleaning, performing maintenance or repairs. One of the big T-72 battle tanks that had attacked the crash site was sitting near the eastern fence, having its engine checked by some mechanics. The "camp" was a great deal more complex than their intel had suggested. It was a major base, with serious defenses.

Barnes pulled a heavy-looking duffel bag over his shoulder, and moved toward the hatch. Sam eyed him strangely as he passed. "Isn't that gonna slow you down?"

Barnes didn't look back. "No."

"What _exactly_ is your plan, here?" Coleman asked, watching the assassin suspiciously.

"I'll hit the guard tower first, and set up a distraction. Then, I find Steve while you keep them busy, and bring him to the west side fence."

"Easy as that?" Coleman said darkly.

Barnes didn't look at him, either, just kept his eyes on the hatch. "Yes."

"When do you want us to move in?" Barton asked from the cockpit.

With a last look at the video monitor, Barnes punched the button to open the lower hatch. "You'll see."

Then he was gone.

Coleman groaned and rubbed his forehead. "You guys are freakin' _cowboys_."

Eyes on the display, Rhodes shook his head. "Pretty sure cowboys were never like this."

He watched Barnes on the projection as he dropped in on the unsuspecting guards in the tower, straight through the wooden roof. One got a metal elbow to the face, the other was bludgeoned with the duffel bag. Both were down in seconds. Rhodes wondered idly if that's why Barnes had needed the bag.

The setting sun cast deep shadows around the camp. Barnes used them. He dropped out of the tower onto the back of another soldier below. The man didn't get up. Rhodes watched the assassin move down the length of the first blockhouse, pausing only to incapacitate a guard or passerby.

Where Steve was an artist in combat, Barnes was a predator. His prey rarely saw him coming. In a space of three minutes, ten soldiers were rendered unconscious—they were the lucky ones. Two made the mistake of raising weapons at Barnes. When he left them, they didn't move again. None managed to raise an alarm.

Barnes paused near a fuel dump along the north side of the compound, pulling something out of the duffel bag. Afterward, he disappeared inside the westernmost blockhouse.

Rhodes shared a glance with Tony, who stood beside him watching. "Now we wait."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

James entered the building silently, dropping his duffle in the door to prevent it from closing and potentially locking him inside. The interior was a long hallway, with concrete walls and ceiling, and doors along both sides. More than he could quickly check if he wanted to stay unnoticed.

He had tools for such work, though. Reaching into a pocket in his armor, he withdrew two silver, spherical bombs. Two clicks set the timers for three seconds; one more activated them. He crouched and rolled one down each side of the hall.

Thick—harmless—white smoke soon filled the corridor down the length of the building. The caged light fixtures mounted near the tops of the walls were too dim to compensate. Within a few seconds, the people inside took notice. They didn't seem to understand, but their shouts of alarm revealed their location to his well-attuned ears. There were six—maybe seven—men inside the rooms.

Two came out of the first door on the right, carrying AK-47s. James moved straight for them, his eyes picking out movement in the smoke far better than theirs could. He snapped the first man's neck immediately, then pulled his knife. The second reacted quickly, spinning in the direction of his comrade, gun raised. James dropped, swept his feet out from under him, then drove the knife into his throat.

It was hard not to think of Steve's face on the news, bloodied and beaten, barely aware eyes. James stayed crouched for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to quell the murderous urge that filled his veins. These men had been torturing his friend for days, parading their work on television proudly.

He wanted to kill every last one of them.

But, if James took the time to quietly dispatch all the soldiers in the building, he ran the risk of them summarily executed Steve before he got to him. That was assuming Rogers was even in that blockhouse. He'd picked the one that didn't have the command post, on the grounds that the rebels wouldn't want prisoners—especially ones possibly capable of escape, like Steve—under the same roof as their communications gear and leaders.

He hoped his logic was sound.

As the voices of the others grew louder, James used the dead guard's pant leg to wipe the blood off his knife. As much as he wanted to exact some vengeance, he would restrain himself. Rendering them unconscious would be faster.

James checked the room the two men had come out from, finding nothing but a table and half-eaten meals. He moved to the next door, keeping one ear tuned to the voices, tracking their movements. The second and third rooms moving down the hall were empty. Another guard stumbled out of the fourth room, straining to see in the smoke. James silently choked him out. The room was a supply closet.

The fifth was a weapons locker. He closed the door and snapped the outside handle off so that no one else could easily get inside. The remaining three voices came from the last room. James edged quietly down the wall to the doorjamb. A quick glance established that the smoke had filled that room as well, leaving the three men inside blinded and stumbling around, speaking to each other in apparent confusion. One was fumbling with a window.

James charged him first, yanking the man's AK out of his hands, flipping it, and driving the rifle butt into his face hard, knocking him cold. He turned, seeing one of the others moving toward a red lever on the wall by another door. James drew his knife and threw it. The blade found the man's right shoulder with pinpoint accuracy, dropping the man to the floor with a stunned cry.

The third guard appeared at James' left, brandishing a combat knife. The blade came down on Barnes' shoulder, almost dead center of the red star. James glanced down at the now-bent point of the knife blade, then up at his attacker, who was staring at the useless weapon in almost comical disbelief. James snatched the weapon with his metal hand, snapping it in two, then clocked the dark-skinned man with a right hook.

Moving toward the door at the far side of the room, James found the other guard flailing, trying to push himself up with one hand. As he passed, James grabbed the man by his combat harness with his cybernetic arm and flipped him up into the air, smashing him face-first into the concrete ceiling. The man dropped into a heap without another sound.

The door led to a locked stairwell. James disabled the lock easily and descended the stairs silently. At the bottom, he found a much heavier steel door, with only a small window inset high up. Another, smaller and less imposing wooden door with a peephole flanked it on the right.

There were no cameras or apparent alarms in the stairwell, so James moved up the big door and peered through the window. There was a suite of rooms inside, five doors, all closed. The one just inside and to the right was another heavy metal door, obviously also leading to the security room. James smirked, happy to see better precautions down here than above. He'd almost lost respect for the enemy.

He decided on the direct approach, moving to the wooden door, and knocking softly. A voice called out from inside. James recognized the language as Farsi.

"Finally. What kept you, Amiir? We are starving!"

James heard a second voice, but it was too low for him to make out the words. He knocked again, a little stronger, more agitated, like someone carrying things. Watching the light shining through the peephole, James waited until a shadow passed over the tiny lens, then punched through the wood with his metal arm. His fingers wrapped around the person's clothes. He gripped the fabric and pulled back, smashing him against the wood twice, then yanked the door open.

The first guard was unconscious on the floor. The second scrambled out of a chair, struggling to get his feet under him as he awoke from what seemed to be a pre-dinner nap. James didn't give him time to compose himself. He raced forward and slammed the man down onto the floor, then pressed his booted foot down on the stunned man's throat.

The wall in front of him was a security console. A video monitor showed feed from cameras in the small suite of rooms, along with a small diagram of the suite, showing which rooms were being filmed. One covered the short hall, which was empty. A second showed a larger room across the hall with two doors, and several cameras and lights arranged to focus on a draped over platform. It was the room where Steve's hostage tapes had been filmed. The next room was some kind of lab, but no one was inside.

The last room was right next to the security booth. Steve was there, shackled to a chair in front of a small table. Two men were with him, talking quietly and looking over notes on an electronic pad. Barnes' blood boiled. He knew interrogators when he saw them. He reached down and touched the camera controls, shutting off all of them.

The door leading from the booth into the suite had an electronic lock with a keypad. James looked down at the last guard, who was gurgling, trying to push the foot off his throat. James shifted his weight, removing his foot, but immediately catching the man's neck with his metal hand. He looked at the man's face carefully, realizing that he'd seen him before. This was one of the guards James had seen kick Rogers' legs out from under him on television.

James closed his hand until the man started scrabbling at his neck, face turning deep red. James pulled him close. "Make a sound, and you die."

The guard nodded as vigorously as he could given James' unrelenting metal grip. James hauled him to his feet and pushed him toward the door. "Open it. Quietly."

The man obediently typed in a four-digit code, which James memorized. When the door unlatched, James pulled it open with his free hand, then growled into the guard's ear. "Thank you for your cooperation."

He flung the man into the metal door hard enough to leave a dent, letting the man's limp body prop the door open. Stepping through, he sidled up to the closed door, listening to the men inside. They didn't seem aware of his presence.

James reached into his pocket and grabbed the remote detonator. He'd almost forgotten. He pressed the red button.

The muted sound of an explosion reverberated through the blockhouse. Without hesitation, James kicked in the door to the interrogation chamber. The two torturers were caught completely off-guard. James' first punch knocked the closest man senseless, his second dropped him completely. Rearing back, he swung his metal arm, picking the second man completely up off the ground and sending him flying. He slammed into the far wall like a ragdoll, and didn't get up again.

He turned to Steve, who was staring sightlessly at an array of flashing lights, eyes wide and wild like he couldn't look away. James frowned, smashing the lights with his left arm and stepping over to find the lock on Rogers' shackles. The table in front of him was covered in tools: scalpels, a hammer, pliers, a cattle prod, a bloody crowbar and a red-stained baseball bat.

Steve himself was in bad shape. The dark red, white and blue upper half of his Captain America uniform had been removed, leaving only a thin blue undergarment, which was torn in a dozen places and stained with blood. Steve healed quickly, so the burn marks along his chest and abdomen—likely from the cattle prod—were clearly recent. Probably from the last few hours.

"Can't stay out of trouble..." He muttered softly. Steve was completely out of it, head rolling loosely as Barnes checked his pulse. He froze when another voice called out in the room.

"_Sergeant Barnes_."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Hawkeye raised a hand to block the glare as the fuel dump erupted in a massive explosion. He cackled in delight. "Barnes has got style."

"Just like one of those stupid eighties movies you love so much," Natasha said, watching over his shoulder as the collection of oil drums and fuel cans went sky high.

"That's our cue," Rhodes announced. He and Tony lowered their faceplates and stepped out through the lower hatch. They hit their afterburners as soon as they were clear of the jet. Sam was out right behind them, silver wings snapping into flight mode.

"Set us down over there," Natasha pointed to an open area close to the blockhouses. She nodded to Coleman and Liufau. "Let's go."

Hawkeye maneuvered the quinjet closer to the ground, and toggled the aft boarding hatch. "Uncloak us, JARVIS. No point in hiding now."

"_My pleasure, Mr. Barton_."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

"_I see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated_."

James spun, looking for the source of the strangely artificial voice. The wall opposite the door was covered in electronic equipment of various types and ages. Near the center, however, a video screen flickered to life. A grainy, distorted image composed of green and black lines formed on the screen. Barnes frowned. It looked almost like a face.

"_I cannot express how pleased I am that you are here, Soldier. The thought that HYDRA's greatest asset had been lost was deeply troubling_."

James stared at the image...he knew that voice. He knew the lines of that face— "Zola. How...?"

The computerized voice sounded pleased. "_Survival is an act of sheer will. You, of all people, know this to be true_."

Barnes stood there, looking at the garish green patterns moving on the screen, recreating one of the faces that haunted his nightmares. He had to clench his right hand into a fist to keep it from shaking, as the rage boiled over inside him. There was barely time to register that his metal arm was moving, before he smashed the video screen into pieces.

The glowing face reappeared on another, smaller screen below the first.

"_Emotional outbursts do not become you_." It mocked. "_Though, I am pleased with the integration of the new appendage. When last I saw you, you were still equipped with the inefficient Mark Two model_."

"Why are you here?" James demanded. He'd leave the 'how' to another time.

"_Scientific curiosity_."

James scowled, glancing back at Steve. A cold chill washed over him that had nothing to do with the cool air in the room. He knew Zola's "scientific curiosity" all too well. "I think you mean 'torture.'"

"_Scientific advancement can often be a painful process._"

"I remember," James sneered. He remembered those words. He remembered the pain. He remembered begging for it all to stop.

"_You were my greatest achievement_," Zola said, managing to sound proud even through the bizarre electronic cadence of his voice. "_A masterpiece_."

James glanced back at the array of torturous implements on the table by Steve, and wondered how much of Steve's torment over the past few days had been at Zola's urging. Maybe all of it. He swore to himself that he'd find a way to kill the monster called Arnim Zola. It might take time, but James would see it through, as much for Steve as for himself.

Zola was still prattling on, oblivious to James' growing anger. "_Astounding, is it not? Two prime specimens, found at the same time, from the same place, and both have survived to see the same future. HYDRA's future. Herr Schmidt's belief in destiny and Fate may have been more profound than even he realized. You have provided such excellent service to us, Sergeant. Perhaps it is destined that Captain Rogers will as well?_"

Looking around the bank of equipment, James found an electrical box on the wall just to the right of the monitors. "Never."

He reached down and yanked it out of the wall. The computers went dead in a shower of sparks and smoke. His metal arm caught a jolt from the electricity, but he'd had worse. Zola, eerily, faded out a moment after the rest of the machinery went dark.

"_Are you so cert—?_"

James hurled the mangled junction box to the floor, and turned back to Steve. He'd let Zola distract him for too long already.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Tony sent a repulsor blast into the legs of the machine gun nest, sending the gun mount and its crew tumbling to the ground. The battle was taking longer than he'd hoped, but Coleman had been right. Achebe had plenty of soldiers, and they were proving as fanatical as any HYDRA cell he'd helped bust up in the past months.

Checking his HUD, Tony changed course and hurried to the southern fence line to give Sam some cover. He tracked the course of the fight with the map display in his helmet as well as the comms.

"_Three of them on the move!_" Sam called out.

"_On it. Standby_." Hawkeye replied. He brought the jet past Tony, strafing a group of soldiers on motorcycles with the craft's forward autocannon.

"_Sam, dive! Stinger!_" Rhodey called out.

Tony saw it, the surface-to-air missile launcher mounted on the back of a truck. He sent one of his wrist-mounted missiles after it. "I got it."

A warning alarm sounded in his helmet, a red flashing indicator showing up on the map. Tony hit his afterburners and rocketed straight up just as a 125mm tank shell roared past him. The T-72 was in the action now, rolling through the middle of the camp slowly, trying to target them. Tony swung around to avoid another shot. "Rhodey, wanna help flank this guy?"

Before his friend could reply, the sky turned grayish-black unnaturally quickly, and thunder rolled so strongly that it vibrated his armor. Thor had finally arrived.

The thunder god came crashing down on the tank from above, using his hammer to crush the huge cannon with a single blow. Several Ghudazan soldiers opened fire, but their otherwise formidable human weaponry proved woefully inadequate. The bullets bounced harmlessly off Thor's armor, and the soldiers got a lightning barrage for their trouble.

"_He sure knows how to make an entrance_." Hawkeye observed. The jet swooped by overhead, targeting another machine gun nest.

"_Thank you, my friend_," Thor called out, gleefully engaging a group of HYDRA sentries that had entered the fray. Tony smiled. Apparently, the Asgardian had remembered his earpiece this time.

Tony checked the time. Barnes had been inside for ten minutes. He hoped nothing had gone wrong.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Steve was heavy. James smirked as they struggled up the stairs. It wasn't that he couldn't carry the man: after all, he was quite strong himself. Instead, it was something else. A memory of another time, another staircase, and a much, much lighter Steve Rogers.

_One foot after the other buddy...there you go. I'm not carrying you, walk!_

_S-s-sorry, Buck...tryin'. Ooh. I...oh boy...I think I'm gonna throw up..._

_This is the last time I take you out drinking, punk. I don't care if it is your birthday_.

James paused at the first landing, letting Steve catch his breath. Whatever drugs had been in the IVs had left Rogers weak. Not to mention delirious. He'd spent most of their not-so-exciting escape so far muttering incoherently to himself. He wasn't making much noise, so James allowed it to continue.

Unfortunately, whenever Steve's lazily roaming eyes landed on James, he turned morose, and kept shaking his head, which threw him off balance even more.

"Sorry...I'm so sorry, Bucky..."

James patted Steve's cheek lightly with his metal hand, careful of the deep bruise along his right eye socket. "Hey. We're going to get out of here. Whatever they did to you, it's over. All right?"

Steve seemed inconsolable, however. "D-didn't mean to...never would have..."

James had no idea what he was talking about, but arguing wasn't going to get them anywhere. "I know. I know, all right? Keep moving. One foot after the other."

Rogers obeyed. He was wobbly, but he managed to keep his feet both beneath him and going in the right direction. "There we go."

They finally made it to the upstairs room with the three incapacitated guards. As they passed the closest guard, with the bloody shoulder wound and a broken nose, Steve's disoriented gaze locked onto him. He managed to point with one shaking hand. "Dead?"

James glanced at Rogers' bruised and battered face and body, and shook his head grimly. "Not enough of them." He pulled Steve along gently. "_Walk_, punk."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

"Damn!" Achebe slammed his hand down on the communications console. Mr. Bakshi was not answering. In fact, none of the HYDRA frequencies he had access to seemed to be functioning. He typed in the codes again. The screen showed nothing but static.

The Iron Patriot had shown himself after all, but with reinforcements. Achebe's soldiers had been caught unawares, in the midst of preparations for a new offensive scheduled to begin in a matter of days.

Thunder rolled outside, loud enough to shake the walls of his command post. Achebe had seen Thor on television and on websites, especially after New York and London. The self-proclaimed "god" seemed to be a formidable warrior.

How he had found Achebe's camp and was currently charging through it like an enraged rhinoceros was a mystery. The alien had to be there for Rogers.

The plan to force the West to stop sending aid to Wakanda had produced nothing. They had held Rogers for four days, and all they had received from Washington were a few press releases and demands for his release through diplomatic back-channels.

HYDRA's troops were fighting the intruders alongside his own, but Achebe was even less impressed with their commanders' support than he was with the West's actions. HYDRA was supposed to be his people's salvation...

"Kill Rogers. Immediately!" He shouted, pointing to one of the three soldiers who were guarding the door. If the West would not comply, their famous super-soldier would pay the price.

The soldier turned to obey, but did not get far. There was a high-pitched whine for a moment, then the door exploded inward. The loud popping of gunfire filled the room. Two soldiers went down before they even got off a shot. The third, the large man he had just ordered out, had only made it to the door when someone came barreling through the smoke-filled opening. It was a blonde woman. She moved quickly, leaping into the air and kicking the rifle out of the soldier's hand in one fluid action. She twisted herself onto his shoulders and then there was a flash of blue. The soldier dropped to the floor, unmoving.

Two American soldiers entered next. The man in the lead pointed back at the destroyed door, looking at the woman. "I need to get us some of those."

Achebe inched toward the concealed handgun he knew was below the console. He froze when the American's rifle barrel filled his vision. The man's voice dripped with contempt. "Do it. Please."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Sam angled his wings to gain some altitude. The camp was in complete disarray. Isolated soldiers and HYDRA troopers were still putting up a fight, but their vehicles were all smoking wreckage, and the camp's fixed defenses were shattered. Thor, Rhodey and Stark were dealing with the remaining fighters.

Satisfied that he wasn't needed, Sam toggled his earpiece. "Hawkeye, I'm headed for the rendezvous."

"_Copy that_," Barton replied. Across the camp, Sam saw the jet come about. "_I'll put her down beside that searchlight tower_."

Sam hit his jets and flew to the western fence line, as planned. He circled once, trying to get a sense of the situation. There were no soldiers visible, except two that were sprawled on the ground, either unconscious or dead, he couldn't tell. He spiraled lower, and that was when he spotted them.

Barnes was sitting against a wall, under the overhang of a storage shack, a gun held at the ready in his cybernetic hand. His flesh and blood hand was wrapped protectively around Steve, who was cradled against his body.

Sam grinned, and landed a comfortable distance away, so that Barnes would see him coming. His wings retracted into his jet pack, and he jogged over to where the two men were waiting. As he got closer, he realized that Barnes wasn't watching him approach. Instead, the assassin was using a canteen to force some water into Steve's mouth, and talking quietly into his ear. He looked upset.

"...I just want you to know that. Okay?"

As Sam got close, Barnes looked up at him, expression going back to the grim, unemotional look he usually wore. He stood, dragging Steve to his feet with him. "He needs fluids, and I don't think they fed him much."

The jet was landing just a few dozen feet away. The aft hatch opened as it settled to the ground.

Barnes handed Steve off to Sam. Rogers could walk, at least, barely. Sam started moving him toward the waiting quinjet, until he realized something was wrong. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Bucky was standing by the shack, duffel slung over one shoulder. A different expression was on his face, a sadder one that Sam had seen before. In Missouri.

"You're not coming with us." Sam said. It wasn't a question. Barnes shook his head once. Sam felt a little ill, knowing how his next lucid conversation with Steve was going to go, and already hating it. He tried anyway. "He needs you."

That got Sam a small smile in return, which surprised him.

"Right now, he needs _you_." Barnes said, adjusting the strap on his duffel.

Sam frowned, but knew arguing was pointless. "Anything you want me to tell him?"

He was getting used to being an intermediary for these two.

Barnes tilted his head. "Tell him I'm sorry."

The former assassin turned and bounded over the western fence, into the forest beyond. A second later, he was gone.

Sam resumed the trek toward the waiting jet. Barton met him on the ramp, helping guide Steve up the incline. He cast a concerned eye over Sam's shoulder. "Where's Barnes?"

Steering Steve into a seat near the back of the jet—it occurred to him a moment later that it was same seat Barnes had sat in that morning—Sam shook his head. "He left."

Barton frowned, but let the subject be. "Natasha will be here in a minute."

Sam nodded, then helped Steve lie down on the bench seat. Barton walked toward the cockpit, talking into his comm. "Stark, we're spangly here. Widow's incoming with the cargo."

Shaking his head at the agreed upon code words, Sam grabbed a first aid kit and tried to clean Steve up a little. He smiled ruefully, thinking about Rogers and Barnes, and how screwed up their situation was; one wouldn't stop chasing and the other wouldn't stop running. "Tell me how I got stuck between two drama queens from the forties? I was _happy_ at the VA, man."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Branch Health Clinic_

_Naval Support Facility, Diego Garcia_

_Indian Ocean_

An incessant beeping dragged Steve up from the comfortable darkness. He cracked open his eyes to see white walls, and a window with curtains drawn so that the light didn't come through. Odd. It wasn't his bedroom in the Tower...the window was in the wrong place.

It was hard to move his head, so Steve settled for just rolling it slightly to his right. He caught a glimpse of movement, a shadow against the shadows. He couldn't track it fast enough to identify who it was.

His head felt like it was filled with sand. That might explain how thirsty he was, too, come to think of it. As if something was reading his mind, a cup appeared and pressed against his lips. Steve sipped gratefully, the water cool but not cold. He looked up, to find Natasha leaning over him, holding the cup.

He remembered that she was going to give him an "I told you so," when he saw her. But, he couldn't remember why or for what. He must have done something stupid...but that didn't always narrow things down for him—

"Steve?" He blinked, trying to focus on her face. It was difficult, but he saw her watching him, smiling slightly. "Whatever you think you're saying, it's coming out gibberish."

Steve frowned. Had he been talking? What were they talking about?

"Go back to sleep," Natasha said softly. "The drugs are still in your system."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Steve drifted in the darkness. It was comfortable, and warm. He liked being warm. He'd spent so much of his life cold, too cold. Bucky did his best during the winters, keeping his constantly ill frame as wrapped up as possible in their drafty apartment. Steve tried to keep up with his half of the chores. The trash, cooking, cleaning...but all too often, from December to March, Bucky did it all. He never complained, not even when he caught colds himself. It made Steve feel terrible, but Bucky Barnes was as obstinate at Steve Rogers, so arguing accomplished nothing.

Bucky's face floated in front of him. Unshaven, long hair, a metal hand wrapping around his throat— Steve flinched. That wasn't right.

_Bucky?_

_ Who the hell is Bucky?_

Steve tried to push himself out of the darkness. It wasn't as comfortable anymore. There was a voice. He zeroed in on that. He recognized it.

Blinking his eyes open, Steve saw a white room, curtained window. It looked familiar, but it wasn't his. His bedroom in Stark Tower had dark blue walls, with white trim and dark red fixtures...because Stark was Stark, and he found that amusing. Pepper had assured him that they could have it redecorated, but Steve politely declined. The room was tasteful, in a snarky way...though he refused to admit that to Tony.

This wasn't his room. He knew hospital rooms when he saw them. All too well. He rolled his head to the right, immediately regretting it, since a headache started pounding away like Thor's hammer against his shield. Steve felt nauseous at the movement, so he froze and tried to ride out the wave of vertigo.

From that position, though, he located the voice. Clint was propped back in a chair, feet on the bed, hands folded behind his head, grinning and looking at the ceiling, lost in whatever tale he was telling. Steve could only understand bits and pieces of it.

"...I never went to my prom. I mean...but it was just to drink in the parking lot. I couldn't afford a suit...anyway, his girlfriend had _two_ sisters, twins...invited to their house...well, it would have been rude to say no..."

Steve wanted to roll his eyes, but the very thought of doing so made the vertigo worse, so he just laid there and listened as Clint regaled him with the adventure of his senior prom.

He wasn't sure when he fell back asleep...somewhere around the time the girls' parents showed up.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_New York City_

_Avengers Tower, Medical Wing_

The plane was going down fast. Steve wanted to say goodbye to Peggy, but he hated to hear her cry...and he was running out of time. Better to leave it at a dance than—

Steve jolted awake. The nightmare felt so real...he could feel the icy water rushing in around him. He could _feel_ his organs slowing down until there were no more feelings. Panting, his eyes darted back and forth. _Not on the plane. Not on the plane_.

The room had changed. The window that had been in front of him was gone, replaced with a solid wall, lit by hidden track lighting which gave it a futuristic appearance. He'd just been in another hospital a while ago...

"Steven! You're awake!" Thor's deep voice was unmistakable. Steve rolled his head around until he spotted the alien god's long blonde mane. Thor was sitting next to Steve's bed along with Jane Foster. Steve tried to speak, but couldn't find his words. His thoughts were jumbled. He settled for merely blinking at the Asgardian.

"Ah, no. His eyes are still dialed." Thor said, sounding disappointed.

"Dilated." Jane whispered at him, smiling.

Thor turned to her, returning her smile. "That's what I said."

Steve listened to them talking, but let his eyes drift shut. He could tell that they were talking about him, but was having trouble following the conversation.

"I would have thought he would have recovered better than this."

"Bruce is still trying to isolate all the drugs they used. He said he found different sedatives, psychotropics, and at least one chemical designed to make him more sensitive to pain. Nasty stuff."

Steve grimaced. Was that why his head hurt so much?

"Bruce said it's better to just keep him hydrated and let him sleep it off— Darcy! Enough with the camera!"

"Don't be absurd, Jane. I have to record this for posterity." Steve made out Darcy Lewis' voice, but couldn't pinpoint which direction it was coming from. It didn't seem important enough to reopen his eyes.

"The man is in a hospital bed, it's rude!"

"The man is in a hospital _gown_! It's smokin' hot!"

"W-where...?" Steve forced out, interrupting the argument. He thought he'd just croaked out the word, but from the surprised silence, one would have thought he'd shouted. He felt Thor's warm hand on his shoulder.

"New York. Stark had you transferred here yesterday."

Steve frowned, turning his head toward Thor, but keeping his eyes closed. "Camp? H-Hydra...?"

The hand tightened gently. "Your enemies were vanquished, my friend. We saw to it personally."

Steve opened his mouth to ask about Coleman and the others, but Thor spoke first. "Rest. Your mission was successful, your friends are safe, and I assure you, you are missing nothing here. Heal."

Thor's assurance relaxed him...so much so that he wondered if there was some of that Asgardian "magic" involved. But, then, who was he to argue with a god? Steve sank back into the pillow and dropped off into a fitful sleep.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

When Steve opened his eyes he could actually lift his head without it feeling like it weighed more than he did. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, raising up to look at his surroundings. It was the same room from before, but darker.

"'Bout time you woke up, Rogers."

Steve turned to find Stark in a chair by the bed, tapping the display on his StarkPad. "Tony?"

"Good morning, Cap van Winkle."

"Where are we?"

"The Tower. You were in the infirmary on Diego Garcia until yesterday afternoon. The doctors were starting to act a little _too_ interested in examining your blood samples, so I decided to move you here before the government's little science minions started poking and prodding you."

Steve gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position, and rubbed his eyes. "Gosh, I had the _strangest_ dream. Natasha, and Clint, and Thor—"

"I swear, if you say 'and Toto too,' I'm copying the security footage and putting it on YouTube." Tony mocked.

Smiling wanly, Steve shrugged. "Spiders and hawks and Thors."

Tony grinned. "Oh, my."

Steve laughed, if a bit weakly. He didn't quite feel like himself.

Tony stood and stretched. "It wasn't a dream, by the way. We've been taking shifts staying in here." At Steve's questioning look, he added. "Thor's idea. Some old warrior thing about keeping watch over injured comrades. It was all very touching."

"I don't...remember how I got here," Steve said, uncertain.

"That's because you were seriously drugged," Bruce said, coming up to the other side of the bed. Steve flinched. He must have been really out of it, since he hadn't even sensed the man's presence in the room. Banner took a moment to adjust the flow on one of the IV bags. "They pumped you full of enough sedatives to stop an elephant in its tracks. Tony and I have been working to isolate the rest, but there's some in here we don't even have names for."

"What's the last thing you _do_ remember?" Tony asked.

Steve frowned, trying to get his mind to work. "They...they wanted something from me. I can't— Rhodey and the others. They wanted to know where they were hiding out. I...I don't think I told them. I don't _think_..."

Tony shrugged. "Well, they were fine when we got there, so I'm pretty sure you didn't."

"Rhodey, Coleman," Steve said, suddenly concerned. "Were they—?"

"They're okay. Better than okay, now, since they got your warlord into custody, Rhodey and Wilson flew him to the Netherlands for trial. The traitor that sold you out is on his way to Leavenworth for a court martial. The Ellis Administration has a low tolerance for HYDRA sleepers, so they'll probably throw the book at him."

"He got a lot of good people killed. He deserves it." Steve said dourly. He paused. "So, how did you guys find us?"

Tony shared an unreadable look with Bruce. Steve looked back and forth between them, trying to decipher it. Tony spoke up before he could ask.

"Wilson. I was rounding up the gang when Sam showed up here in New York. We decided to go ahead and...you know, launch the big rescue. So, you've got Wilson to thank. Well, and _me_. But, I figure you'd do that anyway, you know, since you're stuck in my building for the next few days."

Steve frowned. That didn't really answer the question.

"What Tony is so immodestly trying to say is some good timing and a lot of _luck_. That's how we found you." Bruce interjected.

Nodding, Steve processed that. Tony was still looking strange, but maybe that was the drugs talking. "Yeah. Yeah, guys, thank you. Seriously. Thank you."

Stark clapped him on the knee. "You would do the same for us, Cap."

"We should let you rest up." Bruce said. "They were pumping that cocktail into you for almost four straight days, so I'd like to keep you on fluids for the next twenty-four hours or so."

"Don't think I'm going anywhere." Steve said with a shrug.

"Just ask JARVIS if you need anything. We'll see about getting you some food, I know you must be starving." Bruce added, ushering Stark toward the door.

"Bruce?" Steve called out before they reached the exit. He hated the feeling, but was almost certain they'd just left him out of something important. "Is there...is something wrong?"

Bruce hesitated, then sighed slightly and smiled. "It was—this was a really close call, Steve. We're just glad you're okay."

They exited the room, leaving Steve sitting and wondering. He sighed, trying to put his memories of the last few days in order. His mind was fuzzy, but starting to clear up, at least. Maybe he could figure out what had his friends acting so squirrely.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_New York City_

_Avengers Tower, Medical Wing_

_1:20 PM, Local Time_

Sam knocked on the infirmary door, again. JARVIS had told him on the way up that Steve was awake, but he wasn't answering. Growing worried, Sam took a chance and opened the door.

The bed was empty, though notably perfectly made and inspection-ready, all corners neatly tucked under. Steve did the same thing when they stayed in motel rooms, it always made for a laugh. _You can take the soldier out of the army_...

The television on the opposite wall was playing a newscast. A CNN reporter wearing body armor and a helmet was on the screen, describing the scene behind her.

"_Today marks the second day of the 25th Infantry Division's march through central Ghudaza. Armed insurgents attempted to infiltrate our column last night, but were driven off when these Stryker combat vehicles you see behind me began firing on them_.

"_While public opinion back home about the United States' involvement here has been mixed, many local villagers here in Ghudaza have greeted the 25th with open arms..._"

Sam looked away from the television, scanning the room until he found Steve, who was sitting in an armchair by the tall windows at the far side of the room. "Hey, man. I knocked but..."

Steve didn't answer. Sam moved closer. His friend was staring out at the city skyline, dressed in sweats, picking idly at the cushion lining the chair arm with his left hand and chewing on a knuckle of his right. He didn't look like he'd moved in a while. Sam craned his neck to see his face. "Steve? You okay?"

A beat went by before Steve even blinked. "Were you going to tell me?"

"Huh?" Sam frowned.

"I know why Stark and Natasha wouldn't want to get into it," Steve said softly, looking resigned as he stared sightlessly out the window. "But, I can't understand why you of all people wouldn't tell me."

"You gotta give me a hint here." Sam said lightly, smiling uncertainly as he lowered himself into the second seat.

Rogers' tone shifted, becoming more detached and flat. "I was pretty out of it by the end. They'd been shooting me up with all kinds of stuff until I was hallucinating. Didn't even know where I was." He laughed, hollow and a bit unsettling. "I even fantasized that Bucky showed up to rescue me. I mean, _crazy_, right? Wouldn't ever happen."

Sam's face fell. _Oh_. "Steve—"

"Except that it did. He was there. _He_ busted me out."

"Steve, we were going to tell you," Sam said. "We _were_. But when we got to you, you were in bad shape. We didn't want to make it wo—" Sam took a breath. "Barnes had already left. We didn't want to get you agitated, so we waited to say anything. We weren't going to hide it from you."

Steve didn't say anything for a minute. Sam was appalled at how worn out his friend looked. He wondered how much of it was from his ordeal, and how much was the result of one more in a too long line of near misses with Bucky.

"Did he say anything?"

Sam shrugged. "He wanted me to tell you that he was sorry. That's all. The only thing on his mind was getting to you, Steve. Whatever reason he had for leaving again, it wasn't—"

"I tried to apologize," Steve blurted out. "Tried to warn him...but...I couldn't get the words out. I was talking, but he didn't understand me."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Warn him about what?"

Steve watched the skyline for another moment, then shuddered and dragged one hand over his mouth. "I have never given in to anybody. My whole life...not to bullies at school. Not to the guys who used to beat me up behind the dumpster, not to the army recruits who thought I couldn't cut it, or to S.H.I.E.L.D. or to HYDRA...until two days ago."

Leaning forward, Sam rested his elbows on his knees and leveled a concerned look at the other man. "Steve, you're not making sense."

"Zola made me angry, and I just...spoke without thinking..."

"Steve—"

"HYDRA knows Bucky's alive. I told them."

Sam's eyebrows rose. _God, no wonder he's torn up_.

Steve hunched over in the chair, looking like he wanted to curl up and hide. "When I first let it slip, I tried to cover, but they just started laying into me...I tried to— I just—"

"Steve," Sam reached out and rested a hand on Steve's forearm. "You were being _tortured_. No one could expect to hold out forever under those conditions, not even you. There was nothing you could do."

"I sold out my best friend," Steve hissed. "Because I wanted them to stop for just a second. Just one _second_."

Sam squeezed Steve's arm. "Listen to me—"

"I want to be alone," Steve's voice cracked as he dropped his head into his hands. "Just leave me alone. Thank you for coming by."

The ridiculously formal end of that sentence almost made Sam smile. Almost. He shook his head. "No."

"What?"

"No," Sam repeated. "I think you've been alone enough these past few months. JARVIS? Lock the door, please."

"_Of course Sergeant Wilson_," the AI replied. Even it sounded somber.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked hoarsely, glancing over at him, but noticeably avoiding eye contact.

Sam settled back in his seat. "Nothing. Just sitting here, looking out the window. If you wanna tell me anything—anything at all—just say it. I'm just gonna sit here, okay?"

Steve looked toward him strangely for a moment. Then he turned to the window, and they watched the city together.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_D 010 (Black Sea Coast Road)_

_Five kilometers South of Sarp, Turkey_

_10:30 PM, Local Time_

The truck bed was uncomfortable, but James had had worse. He read over his notes in the bright beam of moonlight that shone through the holes in the canvas covering overhead.

A quick stop in an Internet cafe in Aden had helped narrow down the list that Hiram had printed for him. HYDRA's network of bases in Eastern Europe had declined in the long decades of the Cold War. He'd managed to narrow the list to a dozen or so places of interest. It was a good place to start, anyway.

His thoughts strayed back to Steve, as they had been doing for days. James wanted to check up on him, make sure he was all right after his ordeal. But he needed to keep his distance. The few minutes he'd spent with Steve in the Ghudazan camp had affected him.

Steve Rogers exerted a pull on James, always had, so far as he could remember. He'd felt it so strongly in that interrogation room—

It was a weakness. One he couldn't afford. Besides, what good did he do Steve? Because of him, Rogers had rejoined the Army, and in turn gotten roped into that mess. He might never have even been there to get captured had it not been for James Barnes. James had kept his distance this long so that Steve wouldn't get hurt...and look at him. He grimaced. _Damned fool_.

The truck rattled to a stop. James frowned, but when the driver banged on the side of the cab, he hopped out without argument. The driver watched him warily as he grabbed his duffel and moved toward the front of the vehicle.

"This is as far as I go," the driver said in Russian. He pointed down the road. "I don't have any papers, and the soldiers have been getting suspicious."

James arched an eyebrow. Gunrunners always had papers. He suspected the driver was more spooked by his passenger than any nosy border patrols. Nevertheless, arguing wouldn't get him anywhere, and he had no great desire to end up killing the man. He handed over the small bundle of Turkish lira, as agreed.

"How far?" He asked. They had to be close to the Georgian border after so many hours. Hopefully, they were within easy walking distance.

The driver didn't bother with courtesy, quickly counting the bills in his hand. "A few kilometers that way. There's a border station on the road."

Russia was making noises about Georgia again, which had increased the gun trafficking along the southern border. James had hoped to find his way in that way, but...

He stepped back without a word, and just nodded to the driver. James stepped clear, letting the driver turn the truck around and head back south, the way they'd come.

Walking, James stayed on the roadside until he was certain the truck wasn't going to circle back, then stepped off the asphalt and disappeared among the vegetation.

It would be a long walk to Russia. He'd need to find another vehicle. Perhaps the border guards would be willing to "lend" him one.

TBC


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Southwestern Crimea, 50 km South of Balaklava_

_Midnight_

Brock's side itched. It had, ever since the surgery. The doctors and techs had looked into it repeatedly, but could never find a cause. Ultimately, they told him it was psychosomatic. He didn't like that answer, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

The physical therapist had suggested that it might go away if he simply stopped focusing on it, so he had. In the months since he'd been released from observation, Brock had focused on rebuilding himself and his former team.

He'd suffered burns over a large portion of his body, and well as severe internal injuries when the Helicarrier had crashed into The Triskelion. When the doctors reached the point where conventional medicine could do nothing more than keep him comfortable, they'd sought more extreme measures. By that time, .E.L.D.'s remnants had broken up Cybertek and its American subsidiaries—and specifically the Deathlok program which had been his only hope of a significant recovery.

Brock had been forced to go further afield, to the source of the program that John Garrett had nurtured for twenty years. That led him to the Ukraine, and Kronas Oil's former CEO Aleksander Lukin.

Lukin's HYDRA cell had first repaired Garrett after his near death in Sarajevo. Garrett had a personal interest in furthering the cybernetic advancements of the program, and he had helped expand it through "Project: Centipede" into a worldwide effort. Centipede was defunct—as was Garrett—but Lukin's original research facility had survived, and Brock was its latest success story.

Months of hard work, and not an insignificant amount of pain, had paid off. Brock had his full range of movement back, his artificial lung was equal to his original, and thanks to a few extra enhancements, he was almost twice as strong physically. He no longer needed the bulky oxygen filtering mask, though he still carried it as a precaution. Skin grafts had repaired some of his burnt flesh, leaving only his face scarred, and a distinctive X-shaped pattern across his torso. His colleagues had taken to calling him "Crossbones."

Though initially offensive, the name had grown on him.

Brock's second objective—gathering his scattered S.T.R.I.K.E. team members, who had either gone underground or shifted into other HYDRA cells after the battle in Washington—was the easier of the two. Most of those who had survived were eager to re-enlist. A few had found safer jobs in other HYDRA organizations. His hotheaded but trustworthy second, Rollins, had been the first to return.

His reconstituted team had spent the previous six months doing odd jobs for HYDRA's leadership, mainly Lukin, Strucker, and Whitehall. After years of hunting down terrorists for Fury, now Brock and his squad hunted former-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and targets of special interest.

It was one of those that held Brock's attention now.

"You are up late, Mr. Rumlow," Lukin said as he entered the study. Cane clicking across the floor, the white-haired octogenarian shuffled toward his desk. Brock straightened to attention, showing respect to the man whose technological breakthroughs had saved his life.

"Yes, sir. I thought you might want to hear the news."

Lukin smiled easily as he sank into his cushioned chair. "I believe everyone heard Zola's announcement. Has it been confirmed?"

"Not directly," Rumlow replied, shaking his head. "But, we do have new evidence. A hard drive was taken from the vault in Washington last year. We received a homing signal from it earlier this week. Someone finally powered it up and accessed the files."

"Are we certain?" Lukin asked. It was hard to gauge the old man's interest. He played his cards close to the proverbial vest. However, he always insisted on firsthand confirmation of any lead, and Rumlow's agents had returned earlier that evening with just that.

"Montclair, New Jersey. A boy by the name of Riddley had the drive for at least two days."

Lukin grinned. "Excellent. He really is quite resourceful. Always was."

Rumlow knew he wasn't talking about the boy. "Do you want me to take a team to New Jersey?"

"No," Lukin shook his head. "It is too late. He will not be there, and the boy cannot have uncovered any information that would be of relevance to anyone else."

Rumlow activated a small digital map, highlighting the locations known so far. He pointed at each. "New Jersey, then Africa, and we got a hit on a keyword search performed in an internet cafe in Aden."

Lukin leaned forward, examining the display with his good eye, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Do you know what this means, Mr. Rumlow? Joyous news, indeed." Lukin sighed happily. "Our Winter Soldier is coming home."

END

A/N: _S.T.R.I.K.E. was Rumlow's team in the film. It stands for "Special Tactical Reserve for International Key Emergencies." To paraphrase Grant Ward, someone really wanted it to spell "Strike."_

_Rollins was Rumlow's second in the film. He is the one who asked "is he wearing a parachute?" at the beginning when Cap jumped out of the jet._

_It seemed logical to connect Rumlow/Crossbones with the Deathlok project from AoS. It has the added benefit of making him more intimidating to our heroes._

_Comic fans will recognize the old man here_.


End file.
